The Scavengers
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: *AU* A shift between Draco & Hermione sparks a steamy mutual attraction, but hiding their budding relationship from their friends becomes the least of their worries. Secrets from a blood-soaked past unravel & something diabolical stalks the haunted grounds of Rowling University—something with its twisted gaze set on Hermione.*COMPLETE*
1. Heart-stopping

**Author's Note****: This story was originally posted from 11/28/13 to 9/17/14.**

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**General AU Warning****: My Alternate Universe fanfictions can veer quite far from the source material. If this does not sit well with you as a fan of said source material, please read no further.**

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**Disclaimer****: All **_**Harry Potter **_**characters &amp; elements (c) JK Rowling**

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**Chapter One**

Heart-stopping

Hermione Granger read that lone, terrible word once more, willing it to change. She wasn't so fortunate, for no matter how she squinted, tilted her head, or turned the ragged-edged slip of paper in her hand, the writing remained the same. The letters mocked and jeered her. They practically stood up from the thin surface and hissed at her.

_Slytherin._

"Hermione," Lavender Brown cooed with forced, but believable sweetness in her tone, twirling the length of her braid between her fingers.

The girl looked up blinking rapidly, as though she'd forgotten what was happening.

"The other girls have already left to find their items. If you wait any longer to get moving, you're going to lose for certain."

With a sigh, Hermione nodded. Her secondary school rival was right, of course. But they'd agreed to turn over a new leaf. Stuck in the same Residence Hall for university, they were trying to be friends. Lavender was putting in the effort to see that through, to show that she was beyond their year twelve dispute over Ron Weasley—that redheaded menace to women everywhere. They'd all been struggling for months to re-establish connections to each other that wouldn't rehash painful memories.

Stuck on Rowling University's small campus for Spring Break, the girls of Gryffindor Hall and some of the faculty were nearly the only occupants. To prevent them from losing their minds out of boredom, Lavender had decided on a game. A scavenger hunt, she'd said.

Hermione was simply dying to point out that retrieving a _single _item from another Hall did not a scavenger hunt make, but then Katie Bell and Parvati Patil—who's twin sister Padma, in the Ravenclaw Hall, was lucky enough to be on a trip with some boy she was dating—had not argued. They seemed to find the notion of sneaking into the other Halls to retrieve an item that would prove they'd trespassed on their targeted building without being caught was somewhat thrilling. She almost hated to admit that she'd agreed.

Until she saw the name of the Hall she'd picked.

But meeting Lavender half-way was the least she could do.

Lavender's eyes widened, her gaze shooting from Hermione's face to the paper and back. "Is something wrong?"

"Uh, no, no." Hermione cleared her throat as she tucked the torn slip into the pocket of her jeans. They were supposed to keep their targets secret until they returned with their items; the winner would be determined not only by time, but also by distance between the Halls and size of the target building. "I'm just being a coward. Right, then. Off I go."

Lavender watched the other girl spin on a heel, newly-straightened and sleek golden-brown hair bouncing on her shoulders as she disappeared out the door of the Gryffindor Hall common area. Holding in a self-satisfied sigh, Miss Brown pulled an empty saucer across the table and upended the paper bag from which the others had drawn the names, dumping a bunch of tiny, crumpled paper slips into it.

She giggled quietly as she extracted a lighter from the end table drawer and set the dish's tiny, fragile contents ablaze. Six extra pieces, all bearing the same name. They were _supposed_ to be duplicates, equally divided between the three other Halls, but Lavender _might _have forgotten the rules for a moment. _Whoopsie_. Of course, none of the girls had seen the way she'd held the bag. No one noticed how she carefully slipped the more pleasant Halls' names into Katie's and Parvati's fingers, guaranteeing that Hermione would only be able to pick the one she dreaded the most.

Slight of hand, always so much more useful than anyone thought. Oh, and of course, there was that one _other_ detail she'd forgotten to tell Hermione about Slytherin Hall, but . . . .

Well, Hermione would find out soon enough.

Lavender sat back, resting her heels on the edge of the table. A smile curved her lips as she imagined how devastated the star pupil would be when she at last received a blemish on her otherwise spotless scholastic record.

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She forced a gulp down her throat as she neared the building. As if Rowling University— with the antiquated church grounds, and crumbling little cemetery _on_ campus— wasn't creepy enough based on aesthetics alone, the sun had already set. And she was sneaking into what was rumored to be the most haunted of the four campus Residence Halls.

Hell, Gryffindor was bad enough with footsteps in empty rooms, taps on the shoulder when no one else was around, and doors that swung open or shut, as though they possessed minds of their own. At least the building was empty of people.

She wouldn't have to fear being caught, she just had to fear having her wits frightened out of her by something that, technically, wasn't even _there_.

Fabulous.

A chill danced up her spine, and she wrapped her arms around herself, bunching the cuffs of her sweatshirt's sleeves in her fists. _Just the wind, just the wind, you're being a_complete_ idiot. _There was no call for being so skittish.

True, the only person who'd ever despised her more than Lavender—well, secondary-school-Lavender, anyway— resided in Slytherin Hall. Perhaps that was only fair, as she despised him right back. She counted it a small blessing that he was off, somewhere. Jet-setting with his stomach-turningly snobbish parents, no doubt.

_Stupid legacy kids,_ she thought grudgingly. God, she'd hoped he'd have chosen a different university, but no. He _had_ to be at this school, because his father had gone here, and his father's father and blah, blah, blah. Ugh, the whole elitist process sickened her. And if that wasn't enough, the supervisor of Slytherin Hall was the professor who hated her guts. No teacher had _ever_ hated her in the course of her entire academic career!

Honestly, she felt as though Slytherin was out to get her.

She paused, glancing up at the imposing grey stone edifice; its iron-wrought gated windows and gargoyle-capped spires seemed to glare down at her. Once more a shiver threatened, but she forced the sensation away.

Already she felt the tickling press on the back of her neck, as though she was being watched. _Paranoia, Hermione, that's all it is_, she forced the words through her brain as she turned her head, glancing over her shoulder. As expected, not a soul as far as the eye could see. If only the misty glow of streetlamps filtering through tree branches onto deserted paths was an affect that calmed one's nerves rather than rattled them.

Her gaze returned to the frozen, gnarled creatures clinging to the steepled rooftops. She tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of her head that reminded her that this was where Tom Riddle had attended school. That Slytherin was the Hall in which he'd rested his head at night, not long before he started . . . .

Hermione shook her head, she would not think about that, now. It was bad enough that scar on her best friend's forehead was a reminder of such dark and tragic events. She didn't blame Harry at all for trying to keep it hidden beneath his hair all these years.

The last thing she needed was to think about an eighteen-years-dead serial killer as she tip-toed through the corridors of a building which, God help her, even_ looked_haunted. Lights inside the Hall were on for students who might return from break early, which should have eased her apprehension. Somehow though, the brightness peeking through the corridor windows only added to the cold, ominous feeling twisting in the pit of her stomach.

She climbed the steps, pushing away the last of her resistance as she crossed the porch. Hermione gripped the doorknob for a brief moment before snatching her hand back.

"On second thought," she whispered, returning to the steps. No one was home, but she still wouldn't be able to explain what she was doing at Slytherin Hall to any faculty who might see her.

Tossing another cursory glance about the campus grounds, she ducked her head and jogged around the side of the building to the back door.

And oh, did she feel like an idiot, hiding from _nobody_.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she turned the knob and found the door unlocked. Hiding from nobody would have seemed an intelligent thing compared to having her attempt at covert maneuvers stymied by a dead bolt.

Easing the door open, she slipped inside and closed it behind her with excruciating slowness. Her shoulders slumped. With her unhurried pace, there was no way she would win the game, but Hermione didn't have it in her nature to give up on a challenge, either. Nodding to herself—she _would_ finish this, even if Katie and Parvati were both back at Gryffindor Hall, already—Hermione turned and crept through the kitchen toward an arched entryway.

She supposed it helped that her Hall and Slytherin seemed to follow the same, basic, layout. From the kitchen at the back—that, if anything like Gryffindor, was really only used for storing midnight-snack goodies and stashing alcohol—a corridor, _this_ corridor, would lead her to the common area. When she stepped from the narrow passage into the large, lavishly decorated parlor, she let out a breath she'd not realized she was holding.

She also reaffirmed her loathing of legacy brats.

Out of all the Halls, Slytherin was well known for housing the largest number of so-and-so's child, grandchild, or great-great-nephew, or whatever, and the posh furnishings reflected a favoritism the school would never admit to showing. Certainly Gryffindor's amenities were comfortable enough, but they did show age; the red cushions and gold carpets had a certain well-worn, lived-in feel about them.

But Slytherin? Their green and silver _everything_ was plush and new—vibrant metallic grey and deep, rich emerald everywhere she looked. So very different from the outward appearance of the building that the contrast jarred her a bit.

"Dammit, Hermione, get it together. You have a few more years of hating this ahead of you." Lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders and turned toward what she knew was the door to their cellar.

Like her own Hall, nothing of note was in the common area; she doubted the girls would be satisfied if she tried returning with a green and silver throw pillow. If the pattern held, then the cellar was a small recreational area. Plaques and trophies of all sorts earned by the Slytherin residents would be down there.

She might be the last one back, but she was going make certain she grabbed something that was worth all this trouble.

A floorboard creaked overhead, lodging her heart in her throat. Biting her lip to keep from calling out—recognizing her knee-jerk reaction to ask if anyone was there as equal parts sudden, overwhelming,_and_ stupid—she dashed into the ellar stairwell.

If that _was_ a person and not her imagination—worse yet, some invisible specter—she couldn't get caught here. She'd just have to climb out a cellar window, or something.

Despite her hurry, she measured her pace as she descended the steps. Stumbling to the bottom over her own two feet, or making too much noise rushing, would only serve to jangle her already frayed nerves.

Dammit, she was braver than this!

Again the sense of being watched poured over her as she set her feet on the cellar's plush, carpeted floor. She looked across the varied game tables, the leather-seated benches and overstocked vending machines. She told herself with such surroundings, some_thing_ watching her was unlikely, perhaps even downright laughable.

Unfortunately, _herself_ did not find that assurance comforting . . . or very believable. Hermione briefly considered that she should work on the confidence of her inner dialogues when she finished with this nonsense.

She crossed the room, her gaze sweeping over everything as she passed. Along the furthest wall, plaques gleamed, perfectly outlining an enormous glass trophy case. Counting on the case being locked—coupled with the difficulty of smuggling out a giant, gold-plated cup beneath her fitted sweatshirt—she set her eyes on a finely polished square of wood-and-metal. The award was place low on the wall, making it both easy for her to reach, and not very prominent amongst the display. Hermione guessed that worked in her favor, as its absence might go unnoticed for a little while.

"Perfect," she said the word under her breath, slipping her fingers beneath the plaque to pull it free.

Her head snapped up at an odd shuffling sound coming from a narrow corridor she'd not noticed a moment ago. Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, Hermione stepped to one side, peering around the trophy case—the darn thing was so expansive that the shelving hid the entrance from view unless one was looking at the corridor head-on.

Gryffindor Hall had no such corridor. Well, if that wasn't creepy . . . .

Again the sound came, startling her, and her prize slipped from her hands. Choking back a gasp, she dropped to one knee, catching the plaque a hair's breadth from connecting with the glass door of the display case.

_Way too close_. She should go. _Now_, she realized as she stood. Whatever made that noise wasn't her concern.

But when the shuffling came once more, she found herself moving down the corridor rather than sprinting back toward the staircase. Of all the times for her curiosity to take the helm . . . .

Despite her fear, she'd always wanted to see a ghost—sort of. She'd felt things and heard things, but _seeing_ something? Now that was an idea which excited and terrified her, equally.

"Curiosity killed the cat, Hermione," she whispered in sing-song as she spied a door.

This corridor felt _strange_. It looked as though it didn't belong to the interior of Slytherin Hall, but the long, narrow space certainly matched the spooky _ex_terior. The wood paneling was cracked and water-damaged in spots. Places on the walls appeared charred. How odd, she hadn't read of any fires in the school's history.

A sound came from behind the half-open door at the end, one that made her think of a crate being jostled. She froze a moment, her eyes closing and opening again, slowly.

"Please be rats," she murmured, her words barely a thread of sound against the unsettling quiet surrounding her.

She poked her head into the room, the plaque clutched in one hand as she curled the fingers of the other around the rough, pitted wood of the door.

There was no one in sight. Stepping into the room, she let out a shaky sigh as her gaze wandered over old bookcases stuffed with tomes, old periodicals, and an assortment of random, aged knickknacks. That rabid curiosity returned, demanding that she investigate the dusty, antique treasure trove immediately!

Her response to the situation irritated her. She'd wasted too much time, already. She needed to leave.

So when the sound came yet again, she decided to ignore it; to turn on a heel and exit the room. Finding herself, instead, slinking _toward_ the shelves from where the noise emanated was an unpleasant surprise.

_I am _so_ stupid, _she thought, shaking her head. Even reminding herself that _this_ was why the idiots were the first people to die in horror films did not halt her steps.

If she saw nothing, she would turn and run right back out, leaving Slytherin Hall behind her as fast as her legs would carry her. On the other hand, if she saw something . . . she would probably_still_ run out, barely able to refrain from screaming bloody murder as she went.

She really couldn't help herself, she _had_ to know what made that sound. Hermione leaned around the bookcase, bracing for whatever she might find.

The shock of seeing that head of all-too-familiar platinum hair bent toward a stack of old newspapers forced a single word from her lips. "Malfoy?"

Immediately straightening up, she clamped her free hand over her mouth, but she moved too late. As soon as she turned away, she heard his footsteps behind her.

"Granger!" Draco Malfoy's voice was quiet, but sharp, ringing through the room.

Pivoting to look up at him, she was not the least bit surprised to see his angular features twisted into that leering scowl he seemed to reserve solely for her. "I . . . didn't mean to interrupt. If you don't mind, I'll just be going, then."

His dark eyebrows shot up as he stepped around her, placing himself between her and the door. "Oh, it seems I do mind. What are you doing here?"

"What are you?" she shot back, thoughtlessly.

"I _live_ here."

"I thought you were off terrorizing innocent vacationers somewhere." She couldn't be too far off the mark; his normally fair skin had a golden tint to it, and his already pale hair held barely noticeable streaks of sun-bleached white. How easy she found it to imagine him tormenting beachcombers in Morocco, or somewhere equally pleasant and thus ill-suited to his personality.

Draco frowned, grey eyes narrowing in distaste as he held her venomous gaze. "We returned from terrorizing a bit ahead of schedule. I will ask again, what are _you—_?"He fell silent, his attention snagging on the plaque in her hand.

Not missing a beat, Hermione tucked the item behind her back.

His scowl vanished, a mirthful grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Oh, decided on a life of crime, have we?"

"This isn't what it looks like," she said, her words a seething whisper.

"I'm sure the dean would love to hear all about exactly what it_ is. _In fact, why don't we just go find Dean McGonagall? Neither of us seems terribly busy at the moment."

"That's really not . . . you know what? I'll just put this back and go; no need for fuss."

He folded his arms across his chest and rolled his shoulders back, somehow making himself seem taller than ten centimeters in height he had on her, already. "I don't think so."

The air around them chilled so suddenly that the temperature change cut right through Hermione's sweatshirt, making her shiver. She wanted to blame her imagination, but Draco's eyes widened and he turned his head, finally pulling his gaze from hers to glance around the room.

A low, deep voice rumbled, though she couldn't quite tell from where—it seemed both near and far away at the same time—nor could she make out what it said.

He spun toward the door, moving to place himself squarely in front of Hermione as the guttural, muttered words came again.

"What is that?" she whispered so low she was surprised he heard her.

"I don't know. I've heard it before, but I don't know what it is."

She forced a gulp down her throat, unaware of stepping closer to him as she touched a hand to his back. "Then the rumors about Slytherin Hall's hauntings are true?"

He only nodded, tipping his head to one side in an effort to listen more carefully.

Seconds ticked by, painfully slow. Hermione stood on her toes, pressing a bit nearer as she strained to hear, as well.

As fast as the warmth was leeched from the air, the chill receded.

The tense set of his shoulders eased. "It's gone," he said quietly.

Hermione remembered to breathe as she lowered her heels to the floor. And then remembered in a terrible flash who she'd just hidden behind.

Before she remembered to step _away_, she found Draco's head tilted back ever so slightly, his gaze angled toward her fingers.

Her hand slid away as he turned to face her. "Why . . . ?" Oh, she was having trouble putting the unbelievably bizarre occurrence into words. This didn't seem possible—like seeing The Loch Ness Monster, or discovering the existence of vampires by becoming one's dinner. "Why did—why did that seem like you were _protecting_ me, just now?"

No scowl appeared to mar his features; his eyes didn't narrow into a menacing glare. He merely looked at her. His mouth opened and closed, no words coming out, once, twice, before he managed to point out that she'd behaved just as strangely.

"Why did it seem like you were all right with that?"

Now Hermione couldn't find anything to say. She felt the world tilting and shifting around her. This was _not _right. Things always played out the same between them. She would get angry and snarky, while she acted as though she was intellectually superior, and he would get cruel and condescending . . . and equally snarky.

She was _supposed_ to try talking her way out of going to explain this mess to Dean McGonagall. Malfoy was _supposed_ to drag her along, as her protests fell upon deaf ears.

But none of that happened. Instead the silence of the room rang in her, ears and the stillness in the air pressed on her like it had weight.

And for some reason, she was acutely aware of the feel of his breath on her cheek. What was _wrong_ with her?

"Mr. Malfoy, are you . . . down here?"

Hermione's heart fell into her stomach at the awful, unmistakable droning of Professor Snape's voice. Oh, this was definitely turning into the worst night of her considerably young life.

Draco's gaze shot over her shoulder to one of the rectangular cellar windows. "The latch on that one is broken," he said in a murmur.

He didn't wait for her to acknowledge his words before turning and striding to the door. "Yes, Professor Snape?" he drawled as he stepped from the room, his usual snark and rotten demeanor seamlessly threaded his tone once more, like they had never slipped out.

Giving herself a shake, she took the opportunity and quietly set a crate beneath the window. _It's probably locked,_ she warned herself, knowing better than to trust Draco, but too afraid of Snape's hatred for her not to at least try.

"This is a trick! Malfoy's going to come back in with Professor Snape, and I'll be caught red-handed stealing Slytherin Hall property," she whispered under her breath.

She stepped onto the crate and grasped the latch, forcing down a shocked gasp as it opened beneath her fingers. Pushing the plaque out ahead of her, she deliberately ignored the hint of relief flickering through her. At least now if Snape came in, she'd be guilty of nothing more than having been alone in a dark room with Draco Malfoy. That probably still wouldn't look good, she mused, but at least it didn't resemble some form of criminal mischief.

Hermione gripped her hands into the rim of the window sill and braced a foot against the wall, boosting herself through the narrow opening. She squirmed and wiggled her legs, sliding onto the grass outside on her belly. The window closed almost soundlessly and she spared a minute to catch her breath.

Climbing to her feet, she didn't bother dusting off her clothes, but stooped to retrieve the plaque. After all this, she wasn't about to leave the bloody thing behind.

The adrenaline drained out of her all at once. She was suddenly far too tired to care that she probably looked like a marine who'd just crawled through a minefield. She was certainly too tired to care that she'd probably lost this stupid—and _completely_ mis-named—scavenger hunt. And she was _definitely_ too tired to puzzle over what had just happened with Malfoy.

God willing, she'd _never_ be rested enough to wonder about it at all.


	2. Disparities

**Chapter Two**

Disparities

"Hermione!"

She gave a start, her elbow slipping from edge of the Ping-Pong table against which she'd been leaning. Blinking rapidly, she looked up.

Again she'd spaced out. Or at least she knew that was how it seemed. She'd gotten lost in thought staring at the section of the cellar wall where Gryffindor Hall distinctly did _not _have a corridor.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Harry sighed, shoulders drooping as he ran a hand through his unruly black hair. "Everyone else has called it a night, we should, too."

"Really?" She stood from the bench, barely resisting the urge to give a long stretch. "I'm not tired."

Now she was flat-out lying. She was _exhausted_, but for the past few nights she'd had the most awful time trying to fall asleep. She dreaded the entire idea of going to bed, now.

But night wasn't the only time she felt troubled. Whenever quiet surrounded her, whenever her thoughts were not already concentrated on something else, she would find her brain tripping back to those few horrible minutes she'd been trapped in Slytherin Hall.

Her harrowing tale of narrowly avoiding Snape _and _Malfoy catching her by slipping out a window—after she'd conveniently noticed its broken latch—had won her the game. She felt terrible that Lavender was so obviously distraught over sending her to Slytherin in the first place, but she could hardly tell her friends the truth.

And she wasn't thinking about the Malfoy-thing—no, no, certainly not that, she refused to think on _that_—but the strange little corridor that shouldn't be there. Then there was that terrible, muttering voice. A shiver wracked her every time she thought on it, yet she couldn't help herself. She played the moment again and again, trying to understand the thick, growled words.

Unfortunately, all that ever resulted from such pondering was a bizarre phantom pressure on her hand. The sensation forced her to recall the feel of his shoulder blade beneath her palm as she'd stepped close to him. The fleeting memory of allowing Malfoy to protect her would flash through her mind right before she drifted off, at last.

As it turned out, repeating the phrase _I will not think about that_ over and over did not actually block the unwanted thoughts from parading around inside one's head.

Harry offered a lopsided frown. "You're not serious. Classes are back in session tomorrow. When you're tired during classes you get in a mood—a _foul_ one. If you are in a foul mood tomorrow, I promise I'll not buy you a single chocolate ever again."

She uttered a gasp, the announcement pulling her from any hint of retrospection to plant her firmly in the present.

He always bought her chocolates! No matter the occasion—Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day, Halloween, her birthday—he'd even brought her back a box of fabulous Belgian truffles yesterday, when he'd returned from his trip with the Weasley family.

Harry giving Hermione chocolates was their _thing_; even Ron and Ginny had never minded it. His threat toyed with the very history of their friendship. They'd barely known each other's names when they were eleven and he'd given her that first, silly little heart-shaped candy box, just so she wouldn't be the only girl in class not to receive a Valentine. He knew she still had that box, crushed and re-taped so many times its original shape could no longer be discerned, but she refused to throw it away.

She balled her hands into fists, taking a menacing step toward him. "You wouldn't dare."

His eyes narrowed with feigned malice. "Try me." They were both aware he'd do no such thing—just as they were both aware she'd never strike Harry with the actual intent to harm him, Ron quite probably, but _never _Harry—but who could maintain their bluff longer was what really counted.

She held his gaze for only a moment before slumping; she simply did not have the energy for this tonight. "All right, fine."

Nodding firmly, he turned and gestured for her to climb the cellar steps ahead of him. They entered the common area and continued up the main staircase, but when she turned at the second floor landing to drop a goodnight kiss on his cheek, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

Her eyebrows shot up, but she remained silent.

"Are you all right? You've seemed . . . _off s_ince I got back."

"I'm—" She stopped short, shaking her head; she couldn't say she was fine, since Harry's question made it obvious that she _wasn't_ fine. "Did you know there's a corridor in Slytherin Hall that isn't in Gryffindor?"

Harry's green eyes rolled toward the ceiling, his mouth pinching in thought as he tried to make sense of that. "Um, you're going to have to help me out on this one."

"When we were playing Lavender's game," she said, by way of explanation. She'd told Harry the same story she'd told the girls, but she hadn't really explained _where _she was in the cellar when she'd made her escape. "I noticed that Gryffindor Hall and Slytherin Hall are laid out in exactly the same fashion."

He only mirrored her expression from a moment ago, his eyebrows shooting up over the wire rims of his glasses to disappear under his bangs.

"In their cellar, there's a corridor in the far right wall, but there isn't one in Gryffindor that matches it."

"I suppose that is a little weird." He shrugged, deciding he was too tired for untangling Hermione's thoughts. "It _is_ Slytherin Hall and you know what this school's like . . . . Maybe the room was used for black magic rituals."

Hermione's eyes widened and her jaw dropped just a bit.

A mock-evil laugh erupted from Harry's throat and her face fell.

"I hate you," she mumbled.

He gave a genuine chuckle before sighing. "No you don't."

"Fine, I don't, but I'd like to."

"I'm sure it's nothing. Probably just for extra storage, or something. You're sure that's what's bothering you?"

_No_, she wanted to say. She refrained from fidgeting, from biting her lip, from twisting her fingers in the cuffs of her shirt sleeves—from doing any of the dozen things Harry would recognize on the spot as a sign she was nervous, or holding something back.

She wanted to tell him _everything _that happened that night. But he was the only person who hated Malfoy more than she did. She still didn't understand what had gone on between her and Draco in that room, but that didn't keep it from feeling like a betrayal of her friendship with Harry.

Perhaps not telling him was a betrayal, too? Yet, she wasn't certain there was even anything to tell. She was confused, and she had a great dislike of situations that confused her.

Answering his shrug with one of her own, she said simply, "You know how I feel about incongruous things, Harry."

Nodding, he kissed her forehead. "I'm pretty sure you need more sleep than you think."

Hermione held in a frown as she watched him turn and head off to the men's wing.

The entire building was quiet as Hermione crept into her room. She changed into her pajamas and climbed into bed, cringing at how loud each of her actions sounded against the silence, causing each of her movements to feel wildly exaggerated. As though she could will herself to fall asleep, she squeezed her eyes shut.

It helped little to think that classes resumed in the morning. She'd not set a toe outside Gryffindor Hall since returning with the plaque. There was no guarantee that she'd bump into Malfoy, but on the off-chance she did, she had no idea what she was supposed to do. Was she supposed to carry on as though that had not happened? Perhaps he expected a favor in return?

Huh. Now that it occurred to her, that made a _lot_ of sense. Maybe he thought he could bully her into writing papers for him. Whatever the case, she couldn't hide in Gryffindor forever, they had several courses together.

For the first time in as long as she could recall, Hermione dreaded the thought of going to class.

She tossed and turned; on occasion she even rolled onto her stomach and mashed her face into her pillow. None of it stopped that growling voice echoing in the back of her head. Was it calling someone? Asking for something? Demanding they leave, perhaps?

_I don't know. I've heard it before, but I don't know what it is._ She bit her lip hard, determinedly pushing_ that_ voice away.

Despite her wondering, she wished she could stop thinking about the whole, upsetting episode. In comparison to recalling that guttural tone roaring dully in her ears, the occurrences at Gryffindor Hall seemed positively delightful.

Trying to force away thoughts that tumbled through her head quite without her permission was a very distracting thing, indeed. Sighing, Hermione sat up, unaware of how long she lay there. She kicked away her quilt and pushed her hair out of her face. Straightening it was supposed to make it more manageable, yet she still found it constantly flying this way and that as though the newly-sleek locks had a mind of their own.

The bedside clock read 2:30. _Two hours gone, just like that? _This was turning into a terrible habit. She should just lay back down and let sleep take her whenever it finally decided to show up.

But that would only lead to more tossing and turning . . . which would lead right back to thinking about Malf—about her terrible night at Slytherin Hall! Yes, that horrible, awful memory.

Still, the incongruous corridor _did _bother her, simply not nearly as much as she'd had to make it seem to Harry. But perhaps enough to distract her from the other, far more upsetting, events of that evening.

Glancing toward the door, she listened for a long while to the quiet stillness of the building. With a nod, she set her feet on the floor and padded across the room.

The second floor hall was deathly silent as she moved toward the stairwell. Her stomach twisted into a knot, but she felt silly for that. After all, what was the worst that could happen? Someone else might wake up and wonder what about a blank wall fascinated her so?

Hermione gripped the railing, staring into the parlor below as she chewed the inside of her lip. Perhaps the stillness of the Hall at this late hour simply felt unnatural. Or maybe she was so accustomed to the place being full of noise and students, and varied other signs of _life _in general, caused her jumpiness.

Oh for pity's sake! All the corridor and main Hall lights were on, there was nothing for her to fear. She was just going downstairs to . . . .

Hermione squared her shoulders and nodded to herself. She was just going into the cellar to examine that corridor_-less _wall. Harry was right, she told herself, strangely cognizant of each step beneath her feet as she descended to the first floor and crossed the common area.

Of course, he was right. She simply wanted to prove that to herself. The corridor in Slytherin Hall was an aberration. Possibly nothing more than a last minute decision by the architect to provide an extra storeroom. Exactly as Harry suggested.

Only, what if Slytherin _wasn't_ the aberration? What if Gryffindor having no such corridor was, in fact, the oddity?

As she reached the entrance of the cellar stairwell, a muffled bang sounded overhead. She paused, holding her breath as she listened. After a brief moment, she realized it had been the very familiar slam of a door and she waited for any accompanying noises. Maybe someone was on their way to use the restroom.

But no footsteps or creaking floorboards followed. No closing of any of the bathroom doors. Hermione's chestnut eyes rolled as she exhaled. Just her luck that the building chose _now_ to act up, again.

If she didn't know any better, she might actually think Gryffindor Hall was poking fun at her.

Either way, the occurrence made her realize she was being utterly ridiculous. Shaking her head at herself, she continued down into the cellar.

She darted across the gaming area, her gaze locked on the smooth expanse of wall beside the Gryffindor display case. Frowning, she reached out with a tentative hand, stopping mere inches from connecting with the wood panels.

Well, now she was just being stupid! Did she imagine the wall would pulse, as though it had a heartbeat, beneath her fingertips? Was she expecting it to spontaneously sprout fangs and bite her?

Steeling her nerves, she slapped herself on the cheek. "C'mon, Hermione," she whispered, hoping the sting would keep her grounded and thinking clearly.

"Alright, okay." She stepped back, eyeing the length of the wall. From memory, she made an approximate measure of where the corridor's entrance was.

She moved a few paces to the right and approached the wall once more. Knocking sharply, she heard only a dull thud in response. One step left, another knock, repeat, until she reached the space where she guessed the entrance would be. Breathing in and then out again, slowly, Hermione raised her hand and knocked.

In that moment, she realized that she didn't really know _what_ hollow spots should sound like, but this panel sounded different than the other places she'd tried. That _had_ to mean something. Again, she knocked, to make certain the disparity was not her imagination.

Again, the response was a strange, flat thudding.

One corner of her mouth twitched as she thought over what to do next. She didn't imagine the school would be terribly happy if she tried taking the panel down to check behind it. And what would it mean if there _was _a space back there?

After a moment, she pressed her ear to the wall, raising her hand to knock a third time—and froze. Hermione's skin crawled. It sound like something behind the wall was . . . _moving_.

"Bloody hell," she whispered, disbelief threading her voice.

Pressing her palms to the wall, she shifted, trying to seal her ear against the panel the best she could to hear more clearly.

_Wham!_

A yelp wrenched from Hermione's throat and she jumped back. Wide-eyed, she stared unblinking, warmth and sensation draining from her. She shook her head, lips trembling as she tried to make sense of—_ Wham!_

"Oh, I don't think so," she said breathlessly, spinning on a heel and racing back to the staircase.

She didn't stop running until she was in her room, her back pressed firmly to the closed—and _locked_—door. _Sleep, yes_, she reminded herself sharply, she had to try to get sleep. Once her heart stopped beating so painfully and mercilessly against her ribcage.


	3. Psychological Discomfort

**Chapter Three**

Psychological Discomfort

"You were probably sleepwalking or something, and you imagined it," Harry said quietly, his tone reasonable as he opened his text and set his tablet beside it. He'd known since the day they'd met that Hermione had quirks, but staying up all night obsessing about dissimilar floor plans was new.

Hermione only gave a tired eye-roll. She knew she probably shouldn't have said anything at all, but she had to tell someone, even if only to get some semblance of a grip on the incident.

"I _didn't _imagine it! C'mon, Harry. Is it really so hard to believe with what usually happens around here?"

He frowned, eyes fixed on the screen before him. "That's sort of my point. You wanted some meaning to your 'incongruous corridor' nonsense, and we've all had experiences. I don't see why it _can't_ have been a dream."

Her expression soured, but before she could respond, she glanced toward the door. With what she decided must be the worst timing that had befallen anyone, in any situation, _ever_, she met Draco Malfoy's gaze as he entered the room.

His hair slicked back, he was clad in a black turtleneck and matched, perfectly pressed jeans. Honestly, who had their jeans dry cleaned these days?

Only now, seeing him as his usual, sleek-self, did it register on her how un-Malfoy-like he'd appeared that night in Slytherin Hall's strange little storeroom.

Nothing sleek about him that night, no. He'd worn a simple black t-shirt and blue jeans that had probably seen better days. Though, now that she thought on it, everything in that room had been coated in a film of dust. He probably hadn't wanted to ruin clothes on which mummy and daddy had likely dropped a small fortune. And his hair had been mussed . . . in a way that made her picture him raking his fingers through it over and over in frustration.

_He looked better with his hair mussed_. Hermione barely refrained from kicking herself immediately after those words skittered through her mind. It didn't matter that the thought was true; it mattered that she shouldn't be thinking about how Draco Malfoy looked_ at all_.

To her surprise, he faltered, staring back at her. For only the briefest moment—if she'd not been looking at him, she would have missed it, she was certain of it—before he caught himself. Just as quickly he pulled his gaze from hers, the customary scowl twisting its way across his features.

He always sat in the back with two of his friends, who'd always acted more like bodyguards, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, while Hermione and Harry sat in the front. She refused to look over her shoulder, but somehow, she couldn't shake the feeling that, every so often, Malfoy's eyes were on her. Not only during that first lesson, either, but in each class they shared, it happened much the same way.

There had never been a more ridiculous notion, had there? If he _was_ watching her, he was likely only trying to formulate some way to use what had happened against her.

She ignored him, instead concentrating on her studies, on her discussions with her friends. Though, admittedly, she couldn't recall a time in her life when ignorance had required quite so much effort.

Until the last class, psychology, during which she realized she must have done something in a past life to _gravely _offend some deity.

"Over the course of the next several weeks . . ." Professor Snape droned, taking one of his usual, deliberate—and in Hermione's opinion, calculated for the sole purpose of unsettling the class further—pause, "we will be studying deviant behavior. You will also learn to work outside your comfort zone. The papers assigned during this time will be . . . collaborative research projects. I expect that all work will be shared equally by . . . _both_ persons. That is to say you will be divided into teams of two."

A few students gathered their things and rose from their seats, moving toward those they wanted to team with, but the professor's snide voice cut through the shuffling sounds filling the room. "Teams have _already_ been . . . selected. Randomly."

Hermione hid a frown, positive Snape had purposefully held back that bit of information. She would not be surprised in the least if he took some warped joy from how embarrassed he'd likely just made the students who'd stood feel.

"When one is comfortable with their assigned partner, they may feel inclined to do more—or _less_—work than I require, based on their knowledge of their friend's . . . study habits. That is not how I wish any of you to work. These will be shared assignments, and shared grades. If one of you fails to do his or her part of the work, you . . . _both_ fail. Now sit _down_."

Was this any other professor, groans would have sounded from every corner of the room, but they knew better. One peep and Snape would instantly tack on even more stringent project requirements to whatever he already had in mind.

Hermione shared a glance with Padma Patil, who'd been making her way over, and mouthed an apology. She watched glumly as the other girl sat down, facing the front of the room with a dismal expression.

"Not all of you are going into professions that require a background . . . in psychology. However, you will learn that not only in this field, but many others, as well, you'll often find yourselves tasked to work alongside those with whom you are utterly . . . unfamiliar. Thus, to become accustomed to working only with people whom you already know may prove a _liability_ in your future."

He rounded his desk, giving the class a moment to absorb his statement. Hermione read it from her classmates faces, some of them believed the professor was only trying to suck _any_ joy out of a project for his class that might be fun. No student was _ever_ supposed to have fun working on an assignment! But she understood, however reluctantly, that the purpose of this ruling was to acclimate them to performing under pressure, despite social anxieties or psychological discomfort.

She wasn't going to dwell on the fact that understanding Professor Snape was a thing that caused her a great deal of psychological discomfort, all on its own.

Sweeping back the sides of his black suit jacket, he sat. She would swear his every move was calculated, as he made a show of cracking open a leather-bound notebook. Oh, no—nothing as simple and _new-fangled_ as a tablet or laptop for Professor Snape. The simplicity and convenience of such things might actually make him seem a tad human.

"Teams are as follows: Padma Patil and Millicent Bullstrode. Vincent Crabbe and Susan Bones. Pansy Parkinson and Seamus Finnigan. Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger—"

Hermione lost her ability to comprehend the words falling from Snape's lips after that. She didn't want to move, didn't want to look up; didn't want to give _any_ indication that she understood what she just heard.

She was so stupid! If this had happened before break, the most she would have done was groan about her misfortune and stomp her feet in anger as she crossed the room.

But now . . . .

Now she was trapped in a very peculiar place, between frozen in her seat and bolting straight out the door. Perhaps her problem was that she simply didn't know what his motive was for helping her that night—since she was relatively certain Draco Malfoy did not have the word _help_ in his vocabulary.

She took a breath, allowing herself a moment to roll that thought around in her head. Yes, that made sense. The only thing to do was act as though nothing at all had happened, because—really—nothing had.

People were shuffling and shifting around her as they moved to sit next to their assigned partners, and she realized she should follow suit. After all, she very much doubted Draco would come to her.

Oy, was _that_ a bizarrely worded notion.

With numb fingers, she collected her tablet and books. As she rose from her seat, she looked across the room to find Malfoy staring at her. She was trying to behave normally, why did he have to deliberately unsettle her?

At least this time he was scowling. For once, she considered his unpleasant expression a welcome thing. A scowling, ill-tempered Draco Malfoy she could handle any day of the week; she'd been doing so since they were eleven years old. If he looked at her without a foul expression marring his features—like he had in those brief seconds that night in that odd little storeroom—well, she simply didn't know how to respond.

"C'mon, Granger, we haven't got all day," he said shortly, making her aware she was dragging her feet.

Ah, scowling _and_ cranky. Okay, she could work with this.

"I didn't see you moving. You could have come to me, you know," she pointed out as she took the seat beside him, deliberately echoing her thought from a few moments ago.

Hmm, those words _did_ sound just as bizarre aloud as they had in her head. Perhaps she'd only repeated them in the hope that it might throw him off a bit and render him silent for a time.

He leaned to one side, draping an arm over the back of his chair as his eyebrows inched up his forehead. "Could I, now?"

Hermione held his gaze, uncertain of what to make of his posture, of the tone of his voice as he asked that. No sooner had she started to wonder about his meaning, then did a cruel smirk curve his lips.

She rolled her eyes and faced the front of the room. "Do you practice being such a prat, or does it come naturally?"

Draco pressed a hand over his heart, offering a mock wounded expression.

Snape came around his desk and set a manila folder down in front of Padma. "This will be passed around. One person from each team will select a page—without looking—and pass the folder along. Much like your research partner, the subjects of this first assignment have been . . . pre-selected, and will be chosen, at random."

Seamus held out the folder to them, but Draco only looked at it. Clenching her teeth, Hermione grabbed the folder, uncertain how she kept in check the sore temptation to smack Malfoy with it.

Honestly, what had she been so worried about? He was an ass and she was irritated simply being near him. Clearly _nothing_ had changed.

She extracted a page and handed the folder off to the person beside her; she was too focused on _not_ minding Draco to really pay attention to who was seated where. If _he_ chose not to do any work, _she_ would fail. Fantastic. Shaking her head in disappointment—there went her hopes of a perfect grade point average—Hermione read the name on the paper in her hand.

And gasped. Loudly.

Brow furrowing, Draco sat forward, bumping against Hermione as he read the words over her shoulder.

His hand shot up instantly, but he did not wait for Snape to acknowledge him. "Professor! What exactly is our assignment?"

Snape didn't look up from whatever he was writing in his book. "As I said, Mr. Malfoy, we are studying deviant behavior. On each of those papers is the name of an infamous . . . murderer, and each case has one thing in common. Solved, or unsolved, a motive was never learned."

Hermione felt a chill, folding in on herself as she tried to ignore the warmth of Draco's chest so very close behind her. She turned her head quickly, catching his gaze for only the briefest moment before they both faced forward again, staring down at the name before them.

"They are serial killers and—with rare exception—none of their crimes were random acts of violence, or crimes of passion. Each of their actions was planned, methodical, thought-out. Based on case studies, psychological evaluations, witness testimony, any and . . . all valid, credible materials you can gather, you are to formulate motives for the crimes."

"Serial killers don't need motives," Hermione said, her voice hollow.

Her eyes locked on the sheet, she didn't notice the quick, sidelong glance Draco gave her.

"Miss Granger, while that may be true, serial killers, by the very nature of their psychosis, _believe_ they have a reason for the crimes they commit; that their actions serve some purpose, however . . . imaginary. It is your task, based on available evidence, to discern why they believed such . . . actions were necessary."

The professor finally looked up, eyeing each team in turn before going on. "This assignment is due in two weeks, no exceptions. You are . . . dismissed."

Hermione wanted to jump out of her seat and run, and leave the paper far behind her. But she couldn't will herself to budge. And it seemed that Malfoy—still so close his breath tickled the side of her throat—couldn't, either.

"Psst, Hermione."

Giving herself a shake, Hermione looked up from the page, meeting Padma's jet eyes.

"We got Jack the Ripper! Can you believe it? Who do you have?"

Hermione forced a gulp down her throat, unable to share Padma's excitement regarding the project. Padma and Millicent had all the luck—who _didn't _want to do a psych evaluation on Jack the Ripper? She found it an odd comfort to realize that Draco, as well, seemed unnerved by _their_ unfortunate subject.

"See for yourself," Malfoy said, his usual smugness only a shadow buried beneath his uncharacteristically dull tone. He slid the paper from Hermione's still fingers and held it up for Padma and Millicent to read.

The smiles faded from both girls faces instantly. "Oh God," Millicent's shocked voice boomed and she stepped back, as though she expected the name would burst to life and attack her.

Padma's gaze flicked from Hermione's to Draco's, and back. "I'm sorry." She folded her arms around herself, as though she sensed the same chill Hermione had felt upon first reading the name.

Hermione bit deep into her lower lip, finally peeling herself from her seat—and thankfully away from Draco, who instantly regained the ability to scowl—and carelessly began cramming her things into her messenger bag. By the time she looked up, Padma and Millicent were gone, not that she was surprised.

What _did_ surprise her was that she found Malfoy shuffling the paper into his own bag. "No reason you should have to take it, Granger." He didn't look at her as he stood and turned to leave.

She felt strangely as though he was protecting her once more. He was almost out the door when she snapped back to her senses.

"Wait," she called, irritated with him all over again. "Shouldn't we plan out a research schedule?"

When he glanced over his shoulder at her, he wore his usual sour expression. "I'm sure we'll figure something out." And then he, too, was gone.

Even Snape had vanished, leaving her alone in the classroom. Hermione's eyes drifted closed for a long moment. Opening them slowly, she forced out a breath and headed for the exit.

Why, of _all_ the names that could have been on that assignment sheet, did she have to get Tom Riddle?


	4. Uncertain Tensions

**Chapter Four**

Uncertain Tensions

There'd been no shortage of sympathetic looks from her friends when Hermione told them who she'd been paired with; she simply hadn't told them who they were studying. She couldn't bring herself to say the name in Harry's presence.

He'd hear about it sooner or later, she was certain, but she simply could not bear to watch the flood of emotions that would play across his face as she explained that she had to provide a reason for the man who'd murdered his mother—who'd killed his father for trying to protect her. Tom Riddle was a blood-soaked beast masquerading as a man. For a time_, all _their parents lived in fear of even speaking his name, before he'd made the mistake of choosing Lily Potter as his next victim.

Hermione knew that she would simply have to do her best to not think about poor Harry as she delved into the gory details of Riddle's kills. She knew what the young man hated, more than anything in the world, was when anyone considered him as _Poor Harry._

She _refused_ to return to Slytherin Hall to work on the research project. Draco gave no indication that he knew why entering that building would upset her; she didn't know if she should be relieved or worried. When she began to suggest meeting at Gryffindor, his expression withered so sharply that the words died on her lips halfway through the statement.

So in the quad they sat, folders of printed out case documents, several books detailing accounts of true crimes, and psychology texts from as many varied sources as she could get her hands on open around them. Well, more accurately, around _her. _She was making careful notation of the materials they would be using while Malfoy . . . .

Malfoy lay on his back in the grass, tossing a wadded up paper into the air.

After watching him for a few moments, Hermione set down her pad and pen with a long-suffering sigh. "I'll remind you, Snape is grading us on this project as a _team_ effort."

Grey eyes rolled, but he only went on tossing his stupid paper ball. "I'm here, aren't I?"

She pursed her lips, nostrils flaring before she reminded herself to take a breath. Decking Malfoy this soon into their first assignment—oh God, and she was stuck with him for the next _several_ weeks, if she'd understood Snape's meaning—would only hamper their progress.

"Professor Snape said—"

"I'm well aware what Snape said, Granger," he said in a lazy drawl that was bored, cold, even a hint irritated.

"I knew it! You're going to make me do all the work by myself and lie to Snape about it, aren't you?"

Catching the ball one final time, Draco furrowed his brow. He rolled onto his side to face her, propping himself up on an elbow. "What exactly are you going on about?"

Hermione shook her head as she began stuffing into her bag as many of the books as it could hold. "I've been trying to wrap my head around what happened that night. You could have let Professor Snape catch me, but you didn't and I kept asking myself _why_?" Oh, bloody hell, the files wouldn't fit! Oh well, she'd just have to carry them in her arms and hope she didn't trip. "I thought you were going to try to get something like this from me."

She stood, struggling to pull the strap of her bag over her shoulder with her arms weighted down by folders. "I _will_ do my share of the work, whether you do yours or not, but I will _not_ cover for you. I don't care what you tell Snape. I would rather fail honestly than pass by lying."

Draco merely looked up at her, resting his chin against his fist. "Are you finished?"

"Quite," she said through clenched teeth.

"I had no intention of not doing my share, or making you lie. You'll excuse me if I'm angry with Snape for putting us together."

"That makes two of us."

He flashed his trademark scowl. "Mostly because he claimed the selection process was random. I believe he was lying; I believe he deliberately paired us _because_ he knows we can't stand each other."

Not that the notion hadn't crossed her mind, she simply hadn't indulged it—she didn't want to consider that a university professor would stoop so low. "You think he _wants_ us to fail?"

"Oh, no. I think it's part of some warped experiment he's performing. Testing if we value academic achievement over pride, or some such nonsense."

In an instant, Hermione realized that made a twisted kind of sense—_especially_ for a vaguely creepy weirdo like Professor Snape.

"However, as to what I want in return for not letting Snape catch you . . . ." He gave that smarmy grin that made her want to kick him. Hard. Right in the bollocks. "I hadn't actually given that any thought. Huh, I suppose now I'll _have_ to think of something."

"I really do loathe you, Draco Malfoy," she said in an icy whisper while he rolled onto his back, just as he'd been before.

He only shrugged and folded his hands behind his head. "Weren't you in the middle of some huffy, dramatic exit?"

Hermione's responding eye roll was so purposefully exaggerated her eyelids fluttered.

She ignored that as he'd stretched his arms back, the hem of his shirt had tugged upward, just a little, exposing a hint of skin on his lower abdomen. No, no, she did _not_ catch a glimpse of that dusting of gold hair glinting in the sunlight.

And she _certainly_ hadn't noticed how that glittery trail disappeared beneath the low-slung waist band of his jeans.

She bit her lip, trying to recall if she'd received some sort of head trauma recently.

"Whatever. We'll just . . . pick this up tomorrow after classes, then. I think I've had my fill of you for one day, anyway."

Only after she'd turned away and taken a step did he realize that she wasn't quite flustered enough for his tastes. "Oh, and Granger?"

She paused, but didn't turn to look at him.

"Nice skirt."

Heat flooded her face. The _one_ day she chose to wear one of those stupid, pleated mini-skirts! She was glad she didn't have her arms free, or she'd have reflexively reached around just now and held her skirt against the backs of her thighs as she walked away. She refused to give Malfoy the satisfaction of such a sight.

As far as she was concerned, he'd _already_ caught a rather satisfying sight— clearly, whatever bout of temporary insanity she was experiencing was affecting him, too—she would not add to that by letting him see how much he irked her. She did not even grace him with a disapproving shake of her head.

Draco let a chuckle slip out as he watched her stomp off toward Gryffindor Hall.

* * *

Hermione stared so hard she was surprised his perfect platinum hair didn't burst into flames. Their_ tomorrow_ research session came and went with much the same bothersome, contentious, mildly-sanity-questioning, lack of progress as the first day.

Hours had passed since, but she couldn't quite seem to think around her irritation at his impossibly asinine behavior. With the exception of occasionally swatting her friends on the arm for saying or doing idiotic things, Hermione Granger was not usually a violent person.

Spending time around Malfoy, however, had her so wound up she felt she could go a few rounds in a boxing ring.

"Now there is a terrifying look," Lavender said quietly, for a moment actually fearful of Hermione, as she squeezed in between Neville Longbottom and Ron at their usual table in the campus coffee shop.

Harry took a long sip of his iced tea before speaking. "You'd probably have that same look if your grade hinged on someone like Malfoy."

Shaking her head, Hermione downed the last of her cappuccino and slammed the mug against its saucer.

"Careful," Neville warned, reaching out to tip the cup away from the plate to check for cracks. "We understand you're upset, but don't take it out on innocent dishware."

After a moment she looked around the table at her friends and forced a smile. "Sorry. Hey, I've been thinking—what am I supposed to do with that stupid plaque? Someone's bound to notice it missing eventually and we can't very well have anyone find it in Gryffindor."

"Just drop the bloody thing on their doorstep and run," Ron said with a shrug, speaking around a mouthful of chocolate pudding.

Lavender and Hermione exchanged a mildly disgusted glance. This was the boy they'd once fought over? Harry caught the girls' expressions and held back a laugh.

Hermione sighed, pushing her hair behind her ear and resting her cheek against her palm. "Yeah, great, but what if someone sees me while I'm doing that?"

"Dash into the Hall and pop out a side window," Harry offered, deadpan. "It worked last time."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. "Prat."

Lavender—still relieved, days later, that even though her plan had backfired, no one had realized her attempt at setting up Hermione—shrugged as she uncapped her water bottle. "Do it during the night, _late_. After most everyone's gone to bed; then you'd really only have to worry about keeping an eye out for campus security."

There was no curfew, but Rowling students _were_ expected to adhere to a basic, though strict, code of conduct if classes were in session the next morning; a code which included no unnecessary trips out of the Halls after midnight. However, avoiding security wouldn't be difficult, Hermione realized; only two guards patrolled the area surrounding the residences at night.

Mr. Filch was a cranky old hard ass, but common consensus of both faculty and students was that the old man was half-mad. If he spotted her, but she ducked out of sight fast enough, he might convince himself he was imagining things. And Mr. Hagrid? Well, certainly, the enormous man _looked_ frightening, but he was sweet and kind of a pushover. All she'd need to say was that she couldn't sleep, so she was taking a—admittedly unwise—late-night stroll, alone, and he'd offer to escort her back to Gryffindor.

Groaning as she rolled her eyes, Hermione nodded. "You're right. Damn."

Lavender sipped her water, hiding a frown behind the bottle. She couldn't alert security that someone would be poking around Slytherin Hall; after all, this was her suggestion. If events unfolded the way she hinted they might, that would appear suspicious.

She'd think of something, she was sure. Just once, just _one_ thing she wanted to get on Hermione, then she'd consider them even and, hopefully, be able to let go of her animosity.

Lavender's gaze flicked across the shop just in time—half a second later and she would have missed it—to catch Draco Malfoy eyeing Hermione. As quickly as she caught the glance, he looked away again, wearing a haughty expression as he laughed at some conversation between Pansy and Blaise Zabini.

How sad she found it, that he might be handsome if he didn't always make such ugly faces.

* * *

"When did I become such an idiot?"

Hermione drew a breath and let it out slowly as she slid out the door of Gryffindor Hall. The plaque was hidden under her sweatshirt as she crept down the stairs.

As her feet hit the ground, it occurred to her how ridiculous she was being. Again, with the stealthy moves and the hiding from no one; the faster she moved, the faster this would be over.

Nodding, she wrapped her arms around herself—around the plaque—and cut across the quad at a brisk pace.

Everything was so quiet that her footsteps rustling through the grass echoed in her ears, seeming louder than she'd ever imagined possible. She couldn't help thinking back to the last time she'd sneaked over to Slytherin Hall.

Finally she'd managed to put that voice, and that unnatural chill in the air that had seeped into her bones quicker than a heartbeat, out of her mind. And now those memories came roaring back.

She wasn't surprised to feel the tingling press of eyes on her—though, this time, she was inclined to believe her imagination was the culprit, not some wandering specter she simply couldn't see. Attempting to assuage her fear, Hermione glanced over her shoulder . . . .

And stopped dead in her tracks, biting back a scream.

Peeking out from behind of the street lamps was a face, yet she couldn't make out anything beyond the vague impression of features. Solid, inky-black, but somehow the eye sockets were darker than the rest. She felt like she was staring into bottomless pits.

Suddenly the image collapsed in on itself, vanishing from sight.

Forcing out a trembling breath, she turned back toward Slytherin Hall and bolted.

By the time she reached the steps, she was certain she no longer felt anything watching her. She was also certain she wouldn't be able to run another step if her life depended on it. Her nerves were shot, she still wasn't sleeping well, and recently she had invested far too much energy into pretending she didn't notice things that stuck in her brain, no matter how she tried to banish them.

She leaned forward, bracing her hands on her knees as she caught her breath. _That was simply . . . simply one of those Rowling things_, even the voice in her head was shaky.

She was more terrified than comforted to consider that the sighting had no real meaning. Whatever that was, the apparition was likely always about, there'd just never been anyone around at the right time of night to see it. Honestly, she'd wanted to _see_ something and when that finally happened, she darted away like a spooked rabbit.

Oh, yes, nerves of steel, she had.

"Okay," she whispered, drawing a deep, calming breath only to realize she wanted to do anything _other_ than climb these steps.

She didn't want to walk up to the front door of Slytherin Hall. If anyone saw her, how would she explain it?

Glancing around briefly to assure herself no one else was about—and praying she didn't see any more bodiless, shadowy faces— she walked around the side of the building to the window with the broken latch. It didn't really matter where the plaque was found, did it?

No, not as long as the _where _wasn't in Gryffindor Hall.

She stooped down beside the window and delicately pushed it open. The room was dark, but she could make out that same stack of old newspapers Malfoy had been looking over that night.

Briefly she wondered if those papers had been there all along and so he'd simply left them there, or if she'd interrupted him from something and he hadn't gotten back to it. She wanted to puzzle over just what he'd been doing down there in the first place, but that was only her curiosity rearing its troublesome head; she didn't _really_ care.

The stack of papers made for as good a landing place as she could hope for, Hermione supposed. She eased the plaque out from beneath her sweatshirt with her free hand and—

"What are you doing, Granger?"

She jumped to her feet and spun around so fast she made herself dizzy for a quick moment. Her free hand splayed in front of her while she clutched the plague to her chest with the other, she caught her bearings as she waited for her heartbeat to slow and sensation to flood back into her body.

Malfoy stood at the back door clad in black silk pajamas and looking a tad disheveled.

"Malfoy, you bastard! You scared me half-to-death," she whispered, her tone harsh as she walked up to him.

"At least I _belong_ here. What? Are you pilfering again?"

"No, I was bringing the stupid thing back, actually." She held out the plaque to him, but he didn't take it, merely looking at the award for a moment as she went on. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, in your bed dreaming about impaling your enemies on giant spikes, or something?"

"I saw you out the window. Be grateful you're _not _embarking on a life of crime—you'd make the world's most awful cat burglar." He tacked on in a low voice, "I don't sleep much lately, anyway."

Now she understood—his less than sleek appearance at the moment wasn't from disrupted sleep, but from tossing and turning in the attempt to sleep. She understood the feeling that went with that look all too well, as of late.

"Me, neither, not since . . . ." She let her voice trail off as she looked back toward the window before meeting his gaze again, still holding the plaque. "Well, I'll just be going, then. Do try not to act like such a prat tomorrow; we have to get some work done, eventually."

"I've been giving thought to what you said and I've decided that you're _absolutely_ right. I should use this against you." His tone and his expression were both as serious as Hermione'd ever witnessed.

She shook her head, giving a short, mirthless laugh. "Too late, I've already returned it." Dropping the plaque on the ground beside his feet, Hermione turned and started away.

Draco's hand caught her wrist and he spun her back to face him. The last thing she expected was the feel of his mouth crashing down over hers. The fingers of his other hand slid around her neck to cup the back of her head.

She didn't know what possessed her, but rather than pulling away, she opened to him, uttering a tiny whimper as his tongue darted between her lips. She nipped at it, flicking and caressing his tongue with her own.

When she felt herself drifting forward, felt her body press against him of its own volition, she realized what was happening and tore her mouth from his.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded as she gulped down air.

Draco smirked in that irritating, superior way that dug under her skin as he, too, caught his breath. "I'm sorry, was that not a clear action? Do you need me to do it again?"

"No! No, why would you kiss me?"

"Why would you kiss me back?" He asked pointedly as he folded his arms across his chest.

"I—I . . . ." She really had no decent response for that, now did she? "I asked you first! You should not have done that."

His brow inched upward as he shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because we hate each other," she said, blinking rapidly.

"Hating you doesn't mean I can't be curious."

Hermione's eyes widened, her own curiosity piquing in spite of herself. "Curious about _what_?"

Smirking, he leaned closer, but for some reason, she found that she couldn't move away as he angled his head, placing his face so very close beside hers. His warm breath ghosting over her ear, he whispered, "About what you taste like."

She forced out a short breath, ignoring the giddiness in the pit of her stomach and the heat washing across her skin.

He pulled back, the bridge of his nose crinkling as he met her gaze. "Pleasant dreams, Granger."

Clenching her teeth and balling her hands into fists so tight that her nails dug into her palms, she turned on a heel and began walking away, her head held high.

"I answered your question, but you didn't answer mine."

She froze, her shoulders bunching at the reminder.

"Why did you kiss me back?"

For a reason she couldn't quite name, Hermione turned to look at him. "Because," her voice came out weak, and she shook her head before trying again, feeling strangely vulnerable. "Because it felt nice."

Expressionless, Draco merely held her gaze until she once more turned from him. He watched her as she walked away and disappeared around the corner of the building.

What the hell had he just done?


	5. Hidden Details

**I just want to give everyone a head's up: I have so many plunnies building up as I wait to finish my current stories that I may (may) write the opening chapters for a few &amp; post them. Posting them so you guys can get a taste of what's in store when these present fics are completed and so you can see that I'm still about &amp; writing, if there is a delay in updates. However, I don't want anyone to panic, if you see a new story notification, it's likely only me posting that first chapter to a fic; I'm not officially starting a new story, nor will that story be added into the update schedule and cause further delays to the fic(s) you're waiting on.**

**I have also started a secondary writing profile under the name . . . Apocalyptic Freya. If you're wondering what's up with that pseudonym you can ask me in review, or PM or simply refer to my profile page for the explanation. Long story short, I have been struck with a plunnie for something I thought I never would write a fanfic of, but since I've committed myself to writing any plunnie which comes to me, I have no choice. So, since I referred to this as the "Sign of the End Times" plunnie, I decided to go with that in choosing the name of the profile where fics resulting from such plunnies will be housed.**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Hidden Details

Paying attention to her professors had never before been such a test of her ability to willfully ignore the world around her. Yet, willful ignorance was the only way she made it through classes the following day. Each lesson she shared with Draco, she watched the door like a hawk, forcibly dropping her gaze to her text the moment the first strand of pale-blonde hair appeared.

She could feel his eyes on her—very briefly when he would enter the room, and then off-and-on throughout the lesson. It took extraordinary effort on her part not to glance over her shoulder at him. She was distinctly aware of when he was looking at her, of the very second he peeled his gaze from her.

_Then _there was psychology. Since the start of their new assignment two days ago—bloody hell, had it only been two days—Snape insisted his students sit with their partners in class. She caught herself before entering the room. He was in there already, she knew, as she turned down the corridor she'd spotted a head of light-blonde hair disappearing through the door.

Taking a breath, Hermione forced a nod and steeled herself. "Just remember you hate him," she whispered with a second nod and finally stepped into the room.

Thankfully, as she crossed the tile floor, she found Malfoy's head was tipped downward, his gaze on a book open in front of him. Relaxing a bit—but only a very tiny bit— she continued to her seat, praying she'd be settled before he even noticed she was there.

Grey eyes flicked up, catching hers as she dropped her bag on her desk. For a painfully stretched moment, all he did was stare at her.

And all she could manage was to stare back.

Hermione wanted to crawl under the heaviest, most impossibly large rock in the world as a blush crept into her cheeks.

_Hating you doesn't mean I can't be curious . . . ._

Her lips tingled, parting just a hint. For a split-second, she swore she felt the brush of his warm breath over her throat again. The memory of his words sent a little rippling pulse through her . . . as though he'd done more than merely kiss her.

_. . . . About what you taste like._

Did Draco Malfoy mean he wanted to—?

He blinked, giving a barely perceptible shake of his head as he let out a breath, snapping her out of her thoughts. Just like that, his scowl fixed over his features and time rushed back into step around them.

"Running a bit behind today, Granger? Too busy skulking outside windows, again?"

Rolling her eyes, she slid into her seat and opened her text before her. "Sorry, I was dragging my feet. Couldn't decide between sitting beside you or slamming my hand in the door so I could spend class in the infirmary."

"Tough call, I can see. Whatever did sway you?"

She met his gaze, mirroring his scowl. "This option was only _slightly _less painful."

His expression lightened ever so faintly, the corners of his mouth lifting—if she didn't know any better, she'd swear her answer amused him. All that really mattered was that they were back to sniping at each other, as though last night never happened. As things _should_ be between them.

Except they were still glaring at each other, utterly oblivious to their surroundings.

"Are you two quite . . . finished?" Snape's voice was cold as it cut across the room.

Frowning darkly, Hermione dropped her gaze to her text as Malfoy leaned back in his seat, his posture what might be the regal form of a slouch. "Yes, professor," they muttered in—what they both considered unfortunate—unison.

Somehow, they made it through that last, dreadful, terrible, dragging lesson without paying too much mind to one another. Though, neither of them could ever recall a time in their lives when they'd been so acutely aware of the physical closeness of another human being.

After they were dismissed, Hermione trooped behind Malfoy to the same spot in the quad where they'd sat yesterday, and the day before. Yesterday . . . when she'd disregarded his irritated protests and stuffed half the research materials into his bag, herself.

Yesterday, before Malfoy had gone and made everything weird.

Today was different. In fact, it seemed giving him something he wished to avoid thinking about sharpened Draco's focus. Without a word, he sat on the ground, opened his bag, dragged out everything of importance to their research and began jotting down notes.

She decided to follow his lead, pulling one of the true crime books into her lap before digging her pen and pad out of her bag. Bending her head to the words before her, she dutifully began cataloging pertinent details about the case.

_No evident motive._

Details her generation had only learned years later, when everyone thought they could handle the stories.

_Age range of the victims twenty-one to thirty years. How their ages fit into Riddle's process of selecting his victims is unknown._

Details their parents had all done _everything_ in their power to conceal from them.

_Riddle targeted women with whom he'd had no previous contact, of whom he had no apparent prior knowledge. One male victim of Riddle's bloodbath seems to have been a crime of convenience._

She bit deep into her lip, blinking back the instant burning ping of tears in the corners of her eyes. _Harry's father._

Dates, locations, statements from the victim's families, there seemed so much information here, and yet, this was barely half of what had really happened. The Evans family refused interviews, or publicity of any sort. They'd gone so far as to move away, virtually disappearing after Lily's murder.

_Lily Evans . . . . _Hermione brushed trembling fingertips across the name on the page.

Lily Potter's maiden name had been given to the public to spare her child from the press; his father's name had been completely withheld for the same reason. Only family, friends, and officials involved in the direct handling of the case knew enough to echo the _Poor Harry _sentiment her best friend so hated.

Shaking her head, she schooled her features and continued making notations.

Hermione turned the page, scanning the next topic. And had to force down a sudden wave of nausea. She'd known what she might find; she'd known Riddle's kills . . . that he cut out their hearts and drained their bodies of blood.

What threw her stomach into revolt was the speculation as to what he did with them. Investigators never located any trace of the _souvenirs _he took from his victims. The prevailing theory, therefore . . . was that he _ingested _them.

_Jack the Ripper meets Dracula_, she thought, except that unlike the Ripper's victims, Riddle's were all reputedly good people; decent, upstanding . . . by most accounts, women who'd never done anything wrong a day in their lives. It made her sick to consider that _that _might be the connection between his victims.

Their decency might have been the thing that drew him.

For one, terrible, disorienting moment, Hermione thought she could hear it all. Her skin crawled with pleading screams that slowly grew weaker, the sickening squelch of his blade plunging into their flesh, the grating crack of their ribs breaking so that he might reach his _prize, _echoed dully inside her skull.

She slammed the book closed, pushing it out of her lap as though cover burned.

Draco's head snapped up from his reading. "Did it bite you?" His gaze darted from hers to the offending book and back.

"I just . . . I think I need a break," she whispered, forcing a gulp down her throat.

Frowning, he pulled his smartphone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. His eyebrows lifted as he said, "I suppose we've been at this long enough for one day."

Blinking a few times in rapid succession, she watched as he closed books and folders and began packing things away.

"How long were we working?"

He met her gaze sharply and one side of his mouth twitched, as though she'd just spouted an alien language. "You're joking."

Hermione glanced around the courtyard, her mouth falling open a little. She'd been so absorbed in the book, she hadn't noticed that the sun was setting. _It's been hours? _Perhaps the reading, itself, wasn't what distracted her, but her constant mental prattling and pauses due to her knowledge of Harry's connection to the terrible information in front of them.

"Right, okay," she said blankly, shaking her head as she went about gathering up her share of the research materials.

When she had nothing more to say—no witty barb about how time flew when he wasn't talking, no false show of surprise that he didn't have a servant who did his homework for him—Draco knew something was off.

He shot out a hand, dragging her bag over to him.

"Hey!"

Ignoring her protests—just as she'd ignored his when she'd weighted him down with half this rubbish—he rifled through the bag's contents to pull out her notepad. He flipped it open and scanned the last line she'd written.

"He . . . _ate _their hearts?" His face puckered in disgust.

"You didn't come across that?" She was a bit surprised, since they were bound to read overlapping information at some point.

Draco shook his head, replacing the pad and pushing the bag back toward her. "I was going through Riddle's personal history."

Hermione latched onto that, used it to push the unsavory images from her mind. He obviously believed the gruesome speculation was what upset her, and she was perfectly fine letting him believe that. "Anything useful there?"

"Not so far," he said, frowning.

"Which means what? One day he just _decided _to become a methodical psychopath?"

"_I _don't know," he snapped, disliking her tone; as though he was at fault that they'd found nothing helpful as of yet. "According to basically everyone he'd ever met, there seemed nothing about him that suggested he was capable of this. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, during the autumn of—" In a split-second, his expression went from irritated to mystified.

"What is it?"

He shook his head, his gaze raking over the grass as he thought something through. "I don't know, it's probably got nothing to do with it, but Riddle was killed in autumn, and in the winter of that same year, eleven of his former classmates committed suicide."

Hermione's eyes widened, her jaw going slack. "What? How do you know that?"

"I came across it while looking for something else entirely."

_Raking his fingers through his hair in frustration . . . . _"You mean when I found you in that storeroom, don't you?"

Finally, he looked at her, nodding, but wouldn't say what he'd _actually _been searching for.

She only rolled her eyes. Of course he wasn't going to tell her whatever he'd been doing; he probably didn't consider her worthy of the information. Spoiled legacy brat strikes again. But maybe that wasn't fair—she didn't consider him worthy of knowing about Harry's family history.

No, she decided, her thinking was entirely fair; Harry's secret was different. And Draco Malfoy _was_ just a spoiled legacy brat.

She supposed, though, if the periodicals in the Slytherin Hall basement might tell them something, then he should go through them. After all, she wasn't about to check out anything in . . . .

_Dammit, _she wanted to kick herself as her train of thought derailed.

"The basement," she said in a murmur, jumping to her feet and starting off toward Gryffindor.

Confused, Draco glanced around for a moment before he stood and moved to follow her. "Granger?"

"Malfoy?"

"What you doing?"

"I just thought about something and I need to check it out, _now_, before I get distracted from it again," she said quickly, the words running into one another to match her rushed pace.

"You realize you just spoke _complete _gibberish."

Of course! She was so stupid. After that night in the storeroom, Malfoy—admittedly it set her teeth on edge to think it—was likely the only one who'd take her seriously about the noises behind the wall.

She stopped in her tracks and was met with the unfortunate sensation of their bodies colliding as he nearly tripped over her.

He immediately backpedaled, speaking through clenched teeth. "Dammit, Granger."

"Sorry," she said, cringing as she turned to face him.

Strangely, her apology was genuine, but only because she still didn't know how to react to him being so very near. Not when she imagined she could feel the press of him against her back, despite how fast he'd stepped away; not when his low, angry tone just now reminded her of how his voice had sounded last night when he'd whispered in her ear.

"That night in the storeroom," she began, powering on through whatever new bout of Malfoy-centric temporary insanity she was experiencing, "you_ heard_ that voice. You _felt_ the way the air changed."

His expression pinched as his eyes rolled skyward. "You know I did," he said, his voice tight.

"What if I told you there _should_ be a room identical to that one in Gryffindor Hall, but there isn't, and . . . ." She trailed off, thinking out her words before continuing. "And I heard sounds coming from _behind_ the wall where said room should be?"

To her surprise, he followed her meaning. "So, you think a room was sealed up?"

"Exactly." She pivoted on a heel and started off toward Gryffindor Hall, once more.

"How do you know what you heard wasn't rats?"

"Funny, I thought that when I found you digging through old newspapers."

"Hmph."

Hermione could just _feel_ him scowling as he tagged along behind her. She was surprised he hadn't stalked off, already.

"You realize this has nothing to do with our assignment."

"Well, of course not. But what if it has something to do with that voice we heard?"

She distinctly heard his steps come to an abrupt halt as she slowed her pace. Perhaps she should take some odd comfort in noticing that he was just as put off as she was by their impact a few short minutes ago. As they reached Gryffindor Hall, she changed direction, going around the side of the building instead of to the front door.

He watched with one dark brow arched as she did a funny little counting-in-the-air movement with her finger, pointing toward the base of the building. "So?"

"So," she echoed, glancing at him over her shoulder. "What if there's a connection between the noises I heard from here and the noises we heard that night? Don't you want to know what that was about? Don't you want to know what that thing was saying?"

He barked a short, utterly humorless chuckle. "No, not really."

She turned back to her counting and, after a moment, nodded and stepped closer to the wall. Lowering herself to her knees, Hermione brushed her fingers along the bricks.

If they'd gotten here a little earlier she might have had better lighting for this inspection.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, if there is a room here, like in Slytherin, then this is about where that window with the broken latch would be. And there's clearly _not_ a window here, I'm checking to see if one was bricked up."

Shaking his head—really, why hadn't he walked away to leave this mad woman to her flights of imagination—he dug his mobile from his pocket and knelt behind her. Flicking on the flashlight feature, he angled the beam at the wall under her hand.

"Thank you."

He said nothing, only vaguely surprised she'd not thought to do so, herself.

"But honestly. You've heard that voice—whatever that was—before, and you're not the least bit curious?"

When he still didn't reply, she once again looked at him over her shoulder.

Catching her gaze, he said simply, "Curiosity makes people do stupid things, Granger."

She didn't know what to make of that statement. Was she insulted that he thought kissing her was stupid? Or should she feel relieved, because if he acknowledged it as a stupid thing to do, perhaps he'd never try something so _stupid_ again.

And oh, bloody hell, was his face close to hers. Biting the inside of her lip, she determinedly faced the wall and went back to inspecting the brickwork. She did _not_ feel his breath on her skin a moment ago, just like she did _not_ sense the warmth of him close at her back right now.

"Oh my God, look." She scooted to one side and ran her fingers in a rectangle around a section of the stones. They were discolored, but only off by a little—as though an attempt at matching was made and this was the best that could be done. But the newer bricks matched closely enough.

She was positive she'd never have noticed the discrepancy, had she not been specifically looking for one.

Tipping his head to one side, Draco pulled back a bit, shining the light around to follow her fingers. Certainly, the shape and size fit with the other basement windows of the Halls.

"You see it, too?" Hermione whispered.

He nodded, a cold, sick feeling twisting in the pit of his stomach. Rowling had its secrets, everyone knew that, but now, rather against his will—and his own better judgment—he was starting to wonder just which of those secrets they were toying with.

"Someone definitely hid a window."

She sat down, turning to face him fully, as though holding herself up any more than that had become a burden. Her skin iced over, the very distinct memory of hearing something _inside_ that room—shuffling about, banging on the wall when she'd leaned in to listen—suddenly fresh in her mind.

"Someone definitely hid an entire _room_," she whispered, unreasonably glad that she'd not made this discovery alone.

Even if the person stuck sharing this unnerving moment with her _was _Draco Malfoy.


	6. Unfortunate Discoveries

**Chapter Six**

Unfortunate Discoveries

"I can't wait 'til you're both here with us next year," Hermione said as she fought a yawn, tucked into an over-stuffed sofa between Ginny and Luna Lovegood—Neville's girlfriend—in a corner of the coffee shop.

Ginny arched one perfect, ginger eyebrow and laughed. "Oh, yes, we can tell you're absolutely _thrilled_ by the idea."

Luna hid a sleepy giggle behind her hand before adding in her typical, soft-spoken manner as Neville settled on the arm of sofa behind her, "You do seem a bit not yourself."

"She's running on fumes, is why. C'mon, you know Hermione," Harry said lightly, taking a seat on the ottoman and scooting it closer to Ginny to hand her a cup of herbal tea. "Why waste time on sleep when you could be studying?"

Hermione only smirked, shaking her head. Surrounded by her friends—even Lavender and Ron were about, occupying a pair of plush arm chairs—she realized she just wanted everyone to leave her alone. They went on, talking and laughing around her, but all she could think about was the dull horror of tossing and turning in bed for hours.

Yesterday she passed a point at which she'd been so exhausted she had cried when she couldn't manage to fall asleep. Drained from another day of ignoring Malfoy, followed by sitting beside him for silent hours as they poured over more research—still bearing no clue as to motive—she'd thought last night she might _finally_ get some rest.

Climbing into bed, she lay under her quilt, nuzzled her cheek against her pillow and sighed. So peaceful, so calm, so quiet.

But her eyes refused to stay closed for long. Sometime toward the morning she at last drifted off, only for her alarm clock to jar her from sleep a few precious—yet far too short—minutes later.

Yes, she was _still _tired, but she actually felt okay. She couldn't explain why, but she instead felt strangely mellow, yet alert. Perhaps that was an effect of being so overtired.

Her mouth automatically pulled into a frown as she noticed a head of sleek, pale hair enter the shop. Enter, and make a bee-line for her.

Draco strolled past her friends, as though he didn't even notice them, and stopped abruptly in front of Hermione. "Granger, I need a word."

She opened her mouth to respond—to brush him off, this was the weekend, after all—but just as quickly as he'd cut across the room, he stalked away, again.

Biting deep into her lip, she watched him stop near the door of the shop and turn back to look at her, his expression stern.

"Prat," Harry said quietly, growling the word.

Hermione simply forced out a sigh and pulled out of her spot on the sofa. "Sorry, I'll be right back."

She barely refrained from stomping in anger along her way as she followed him to a quiet corner at the other side of the shop. "All right, I'm here. What?"

Holding his usual scowl in place, he glanced around briefly, but kept his face turned toward her. "I think I found . . . something."

"About our assignment? Couldn't that have waited until Monday?"

Something in the way his expression slowly pinched as he met her gaze reminded her that he was likely in the same bizarrely sharp-yet-relaxed state as she was. "Not about the assignment. About . . . ." He rolled his eyes, ducking his head toward her a bit as he dropped his voice. "About the thing in the storeroom."

Instantly she stood a little straighter. "You said I was a mad woman and you wanted nothing to do with something so idiotic."

Once more he met her gaze. "And I meant every word."

Damn, even in a place full of people, having Malfoy's grey eyes bore into hers unsettled her. "So what changed your mind?"

"The voice, that thing in the basement, whatever that is? It's become worse."

"Worse?" Her eyes widened.

Again, he glanced around. He'd led her to a relatively secluded corner, but still he felt as though the walls had ears. "More frequent, louder, the cold lasts longer. But it's only been since the other night."

"The other night . . . you mean when we found that window," she said, needing the verification.

He nodded.

"Louder . . . . Can you tell what it's saying now?"

"No," he said shortly. "But it said something new the last time—something I think I did recognize."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but he answered before she could ask. "I think I heard it say my name."

* * *

As she watched her friend speaking to Blond Satan, Ginny tipped her head toward Harry, her gleaming, strawberry hair sweeping over her shoulder. "Did I miss something?"

Green eyes narrowing behind his glasses, he replied in a low, unhappy tone, "She's stuck working with him on a class assignment."

Ron shook his head, grumbling as he watched Draco and Hermione—who alternately scowled, shifted in place, and rolled their eyes at each other while they muttered back and forth. "Trapped with Malfoy while studying Riddle, that's like having a nightmare _about_ having a nightmare."

Harry snapped his head around to look at Ron. "Her paper's about Riddle?"

Lavender reached across Ron's chair and slapped his shoulder. "Dammit, Ron!"

"Ow." He covered his arm with his other hand and leaned away from his ex-girlfriend. "Sorry, I forgot."

Harry ignored the commotion, his jaw setting. "Why didn't she tell me?"

"She didn't know how," Neville offered in a placating tone. "She wanted to, but she didn't know how. It's not her fault; they weren't given a choice about their subject."

In that moment, Harry wanted to snap at his friends, but he held his tongue. Drawing a breath, slow and deep, he only shook his head. Of course Hermione would never_choose_ to study Riddle—he hated that they even thought that point needed mention—but he had never liked how she always tried to protect him; on rare occasion, to the detriment of their friendship.

He _was_ angry that she hadn't found some way to tell him, herself—that he'd had to hear it accidentally. And perhaps just a little upset that her research partner might discover who Lily Evans really was.

He couldn't imagine any scenario in which Draco Malfoy wouldn't use that revelation to make his life miserable.

Luna leaned back against Neville's arm, her gentle gaze on the pair speaking in hushed tones on the other side of the shop.

"Can you see that?" Her voice was barely audible, in that ethereal way did and said everything.

Neville shifted, resting his cheek against the top of her wavy, platinum-blonde hair. "See what?"

"It's like there's a balance between them."

He snorted a chuckle. "Yes, the very careful teetering of two people trying not to kill each other."

* * *

"I went back into the storeroom to look for the article about the suicides, and I found . . . ." Draco paused, drew a breath, and blew it out again before going on. "It's probably best if you come see for yourself."

"For a newspaper article?" Disbelief threaded her tone.

His face fell as he asked, "You're not really this thick, are you?"

She frowned darkly at him before she realized what he was trying to say. Of course, _he_ wouldn't drag _her_ anywhere unless there was no other choice. "You mean there's something _in_ the storeroom."

"There's a—"

"Draco!"

Malfoy and Hermione turned in unison to look at the door of the shop. There stood Goyle and Blaise, who turned and walked toward them, each of their bewildered gazes leaping from Draco to Hermione and back. By now, everyone in their respective social circles was aware the two had no choice but to deal with one another. However, no one was quite accustomed to witnessing the spectacle, yet.

Malfoy held up a hand and they stopped instantly, surprising her a bit as to what a tight and absolute grip he had on his Slytherin lackeys.

"You'll have to come see yourself."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up into her bangs. "I beg your pardon?"

His expression chilled and he lowered his voice so much that Hermione had to watch his lips to catch everything that followed. "We obviously can't go while everyone is about. I'll need to sneak you in. Tomorrow night, two o'clock, be at the back door of Slytherin Hall."

"You can't be serious."

"Spare me, Granger. You and I both know neither of us has slept longer than an hour a night for over a week. Might as well do something useful with our time."

She shook her head, her shoulders slumping.

"Granger!" He snapped suddenly, his voice at normal speaking volume, once more.

Her gaze, still on his mouth, leapt up to meet his eyes.

"See something you like?"

Her face soured as his grew smug. "Not really," she said, her tone airy, "just thinking how much nicer your face is when your lips are _shut_."

"Funny, I often think the same of you."

As she watched him turn and walk away, she ground her teeth and balled her hands into fists, glad there was nothing near enough to snatch up and throw at him. She didn't know what bothered her more, that she was going to enter Slytherin Hall again . . . or that she would be alone, in the dark, in that creepy room with Draco Malfoy.

_Again._

* * *

"I understand why you didn't tell me, but I'm still angry with you," Harry said, despite that he was hugging Hermione to his side as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I just couldn't say it. I didn't_ want _to keep it from you," she replied, sniffling.

Luna angled her head thoughtfully as she watched the very emotional wrap-up of what might well have been the most spectacularly short argument of all time. She'd always found Harry and Hermione's rapport fascinating. "So that really doesn't bother you?" she whispered.

"Them? Oh, no, never; those two should've been born twins," Ginny whispered back, laughing. She glanced up, spotting Malfoy at a table with his cohorts and flicked her finger from Hermione to Draco quickly, so that only Luna caught the gesture. "Now her and _him_, I'm not so certain of."

"Oh good," Luna breathed a sigh of relief, "I'm not the only one."

* * *

She couldn't believe she was doing this _again! _For the third night in just over a week, Hermione was darting across the campus grounds toward Slytherin Hall. What was_wrong_ with her?

This time, she ignored everything around her. She had to, in her current hyper-alert state, she would only get more frightened—or fascinated, or whatever else she might feel—were she to see anything like she had last time.

The memory of that terrible inky face unfolded in a corner of her mind and she forced away the image, picking up her pace until she was running. The wind rushing past her ears was so loud it helped her to block out any other distractions and before she knew it, she was rounding the side of Slytherin Hall.

And running was _still _not her forte. Figuring that she'd just saved a little time, Hermione allowed herself to crumble to the ground in an exhausted heap near the back door.

The sky overhead was perfectly dark blue, rich and deep, dotted with dozens of twinkling points of light. She let her eyes drift closed, breathing deeply of the scents of damp grass and brisk air.

Sad that the Rowling campus could be beautiful, if not for all the spookiness. Equally sad that maybe, just maybe, she was finally worn out enough to fall asleep.

And perhaps she had dozed for a moment, because she never heard the squeak of the door's hinges.

"Bloody hell, Granger!" Draco's irritated whisper jolted her awake.

She reluctantly opened her eyes to see him, dressed as he'd been that first night in the storeroom—a random black t-shirt and worn-out jeans—standing over her with a look of haughty disapproval on his face.

"I'm having a nightmare," she said miserably.

His mouth curved in a mirthless grin. "That makes two of us." He stepped aside, and only now did she see that he held the back door open. "Let's go."

Hermione grumped and grumbled as she climbed to her feet. If he was a gentleman, and not just some high and mighty brat, he might've had the decency to help her up. Honestly, she was surprised he wasn't acting martyred over holding the door for her. Dusting off her clothes, she stepped past him and forced herself to set foot in Slytherin Hall.

As she followed him to the basement stairwell, she couldn't help but notice that the place felt a little different than the last time she'd been here. Perhaps because it had been empty then and now there was life inside.

On the cellar floor, her footsteps gradually slowed as she trailed behind him. In the entryway of the old corridor she froze, entirely.

At the storeroom door, he turned to see where she was. He clamped his lips shut against a string of frustrated curses. Tipping his head forward a little, so he could scowl _and_ glare disapprovingly at her in one go, he stalked back down the hall and slid a hand around her elbow.

After the first few, half-dragged steps, Hermione began walking on her own. Neither of them noticed that Draco didn't relinquish his hold on her arm until they were in the storeroom.

He grabbed two high powered torches off a nearby shelf, handing her one before he closed the door. "I don't think we want anyone to see the light from this room through the window," he explained as he switched on his torch, and then held it out to her. "But . . . ."

Her brows drew together as she took it from him. "But?"

He nodded and started walking, beckoning her to follow him around some more shelves. The room was larger than she'd first realized, leading them to wind around a few more boxes and bookcases of dusty old things before they reached the back.

"I don't know what possessed me to come back here the other night, but I dropped something, and when I bent to pick it up, I noticed this." He braced his shoulder against a set of shelves and forced it aside.

Now that case had been moved, Hermione could make out previous drag marks—many of them—scuffing the rough floor around the . . . .

Hermione forced a gulp before she could speak. "Is that a door?"

"Does it look like a door?"

She wanted to make a face at him, but she was too rattled at the sight of the marred, ancient wood rectangle set into the stone floor.

"And you think this might have to do with the room in Gryffindor." She couldn't peel her gaze from it as she asked, "Why?"

Forcing out a sigh, he reached down, grasping the handle. Draco wrenched open the door and eased it toward the floor so it wouldn't crash. His fingers brushed hers as he slid his torch from her hand, finally drawing her gaze away from the door, and the darkness beneath, to look up at him.

"Because I opened this door when I first found it. I didn't go in, but . . . ." He knelt down, illuminating the opening. A short flight of steps and the beginning of a corridor were revealed. "If I'm not mistaken, isn't Gryffindor Hall in this direction?"

Hermione backed up a few steps, allowing herself the vantage point of seeing out the cellar window. There, lining up with the pathway beneath Slytherin, was the building she currently called home.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice hollow.

Footfalls drew her attention and she dropped her gaze to see Draco descending the steps. "Tell me you're joking!"

He halted, looking up at her. "You can always stay here."

Rolling her eyes, she flicked on the second torch and trooped down the steps behind him. "What if something is down here?"

Malfoy shined the beam upward, purposefully exaggerating the annoyed frown on his face. "It's a walled off room and this is a door that has been covered up for God knows how long. I'm pretty sure we're not going to stumble over an ax murder."

He aimed the torch down the corridor and started walking. "Well, we might." He chuckled as he corrected himself. "But they'd be _well_ into decomposition by now."

She grimaced, her body slumping as she trudged after him. "I hate you, Draco Malfoy."

"I know," he said with what she was sure sounded like pride.


	7. Dust and Blood

**I apologize for posting this chapter a few days late, was dealing with a pretty nasty stomach virus that sidelined all other activities.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Dust and Blood

_It stirred, stretching and pulling at Its confines, at Its messy and awkward corporeal form, but the servant hushed It soothingly, easing It back onto the bedding._

_"Patience. You'll have strength enough to make yourself whole again."_

_Despite the assurances he offered, the servant fretted. It didn't look right . . . and something about the way It spoke, about the way Its garbled words sounded like two voices strangling out of the same throat, made him shiver in a mix of fear and revulsion._

_He must've done something _wrong_, but he couldn't let It know._

* * *

Their footfalls were painfully loud in Hermione's ears as they traversed the corridor, though she knew the effect was only her nerves making her so acutely aware of the sound. Well, her nerves and _perhaps_ the dreadful hyper-alertness of her sleep deprived state.

She supposed Malfoy must be hearing it the same way, as with each step, his shoulders bunched almost imperceptibly. The motion made her think he was cringing at the noises.

Holding in a sigh, she glanced around the passage as they moved. Thus far, it seemed a straight shot, no turns, no openings, just blank, gritty dark-grey walls. Cobwebs laced the corners, trailing threads hung down here and there, making Hermione grateful she wasn't very tall.

The air felt thick around her, settling heavily on her shoulders and making her feel as though she was wading through warm water. The silence that filled the corridor between the echoes of their footsteps jangled her nerves.

"You never did answer me that first night," she whispered, finding something, anything, to break the patches of quiet.

His pace lagged and she immediately halted behind him, unaware of how close she shadowed him until she came within a hair's breadth of smacking her nose against his back. Oblivious to her fumble, he continued walking. Perhaps he slowed his steps to consider his reply.

"Answer you about what?"

_Or not_. Hermione frowned thoughtfully. Maybe she was wrong; maybe nothing about their interaction that first night really had stuck in his mind. She dreaded to consider what it meant if she couldn't get the incident out of her head. Worse, what it meant if she couldn't stop thinking about that moment, but he never thought on it at _all_.

"Why did you protect me?"

Draco let out an aggravated sigh. The girl couldn't take a hint, could she? At least she wasn't so close behind him that he could feel her breath against the back of his neck, anymore. "Because you let me."

She stumbled, nearly tripping over her own two feet at his admission. "Wait, what?"

He halted, turning to look at her, his face unreadable in the light glancing off the dull, pocked walls. "I'm someone who_ is _protected. All my life, everywhere I go, my parents, my _friends_, they shield me from things, always, as though I'm not expected to take care of myself, or shouldn't know how." His eyes flicked over her in a quick once-over. "The opportunity to _not_ be the one protected for once showed itself, so I took it. Which naturally brings us to my question, which _you_ never answered that night."

She'd never heard his voice like this. They'd known each other since they were eleven, had gotten into more verbal sparring matches than she could count over the last eight years, and yet she didn't think she'd ever heard a genuine or sincere word fall from his lips. Until _now_. This was the second time she'd caught Draco Malfoy in an unguarded moment.

And she had no idea how to respond.

"I'm sorry." God, she hated how weak her tone came out. "I don't remember what you asked me."

The little bitch . . . . Draco opened his mouth to deliver a not-so-gentle reminder of that evening, when she shined her torch down the corridor.

"Oh, is that a staircase?" Hermione stepped around him and kept walking.

"Granger," he said, growling her name under his breath as he turned on a heel to follow her.

Sure enough, a few more feet and a staircase unfurled upward. She stood at the foot of the steps, the beam of her torch trained on a door overhead. Her chestnut eyes were huge as she stared up at it, unblinkingly.

The smirk that curved his lips was utterly humorless. "Are you attempting to open it with telekinesis?"

"I just . . . ." Her stomach twisted and the feeling drained from her fingers. "Maybe we shouldn't go up there."

His teeth sunk deep into his bottom lip as he fought the sore temptation to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. "So we came here for nothing, then?"

"Well, no." She wasn't so certain she wanted to know what was up there, anymore. "Look, we're not in our right minds. We're overtired, and that's affecting our senses."

Scowling, he took a moment to rub his temples with the thumb and forefinger of his free hand, his eyes drifting closed as he spoke. "Granger, it's a bit late for psycho-analyzing our decisions, don't you think?"

"We're in a state of hyper-awareness right now. What if . . . what if there is something up there, like whatever that thing is in Slytherin Hall, and it's actually dangerous? We could be more out of sorts than we think; we might not be able to react properly."

He dropped his hand, but continued to scowl, his eyes locking on hers. She certainly had a knack for overthinking things at the precise wrong moment. "A better time for that question would have been before we walked down the world's most unsettling corridor," he said, his voice low. "If something comes at us, I promise to throw you back down the staircase."

He didn't wait for her irritated response, climbing the steps and pressing his shoulder against the door. Part of him hoped the wood was stuck tight. Pushing slowly upward to stand, the door gave way, moving with him—a bit too easily, he thought. He wrapped the fingers of his free hand around the side to keep it from opening too far, too fast, and chance it making some loud noise that might rattle through Gryffindor Hall.

Easing the door open fully, he inched up the steps, shining his torch about before stepping up into the room. A hushed string of curses fell from his lips.

"Granger," he said in an urgent whisper, waving for her to join him.

Drawing in a deep breath—that did nothing to calm her, despite her dear hope that it would—she climbed the stairs, unwilling to look around the room until she was standing inside. She thought if she so much as glanced in sooner, she might well turn around and bolt right back down the corridor.

The first thing she saw was Draco's face, a bit of color drained from his cheeks as he stared, wide-eyed, at a far wall of the room. Bracing herself, Hermione followed his gaze.

And had to hold back her own muttered string of foul words. The torch's beam glinted off thick, carved lines. Symbols she didn't recognize decorated the length of the wall. The etchings resembled some long-dead, pictograph script.

She took a step forward, unaware she'd moved. "What is that?"

"Oh, like I'd know," Malfoy said quietly.

Forcing out a trembling breath, she shook her head, turning her attention from the wall to examine the rest of the room.

"Why is there an altar?" The words tumbled from her lips before she even realized she'd spoken.

Draco walked toward the slab—a little troubled to think that the hunk of stone likely predated the building hiding it—and swept the beam of his torch across the surface. This room was no different than the one to which it connected, which had to mean the altar was brought in after the room was constructed. Given how heavy the thing likely was, he imagined that was quite a task, performed by _very_ determined people.

"Considering the rest of the room's décor, perhaps we should just be grateful there aren't dead animals on it."

"That's not funny," Hermione said, her murmured words just loud enough for him to hear.

"Wasn't trying for funny."

At one end of the room, she spied a short corridor, like the one leading from the Slytherin basement to the storeroom, and crossed to examine the space. It dead-ended, no door, only a flat wooden surface. Likely something to simply cover up the entrance before placing the paneling on the other side of the wall.

"It's everywhere," he whispered, and she turned to see him pointing his light at the ceiling.

She looked up and gasped. The marks on the ceiling were different, not writing, more like . . . _sigils_, she thought. Swirling lines and slashes inside thrice-drawn circles.

She had no idea what they meant, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know. The air here felt lighter, strangely. It bothered her that the corridor had seemed to offer some resistance, however slight, but this room—which she thought should feel slimy, and disgusting, and negative in every other way imaginable—was almost welcoming.

There was something _so _wrong in that sensation that it sent a shiver down her spine.

"Granger . . . ." Malfoy's voice was so faint, she barely heard him.

Hermione pulled her gaze from the drawings on the ceiling—_How did they reach?_—to find him standing close to one of the walls.

"What is it?"

"We need to leave here. _Now._"

When she didn't budge, only looked at him questioningly, he came across the room to latch a hand around her wrist. He was down the stairs—pausing only long enough to yank the door closed—and dragging her behind him through the corridor.

"What is it?" she repeated, her tone demanding. "What happened?"

"Blood," he said simply, picking up his pace, feeling as though the tinge of copper and salt stung his nostrils, still.

"_Blood!_ What blood?" Hermione dug in her heels and wrenched her wrist from his grasp. "You tell me what you're talking about right now."

He turned to face her, his expression stern. "I felt someone standing behind me, but when I looked, you were across the room."

She nodded, edging him to continue; perhaps she was _too_ overtired if she needed a more convincing reason to hurry out of there.

His eyes narrowed and he spoke from behind clenched teeth, "And then I thought—" He cut himself off, shaking his head and correcting himself. "I _know _I smelled blood."

Hermione felt the color drain from her face. "You smelled blood?"

"And—"

"There's more?"

His mouth pulled into a frown so severe it frightened her. "There was a layer of dust on the floors and the walls, but not the altar."

"_What_?"

"I noticed it when I turned to see where you were. The altar must've been cleared off, and there were footprints in the dust on the floor—in areas _we_ never stepped—and what I'm pretty sure were candlewax drippings."

Her voice tumbled out small and hollow, "Someone is using that room for something."

"Someone who might come back any time."

"And there's no other way into that room except . . . ." _Except the way _we_ came._

"Exactly" Draco said, spinning on his heel to continue down the passage.

She was a step behind him the entire way back, all but hurling herself through the doorway and out into the Slytherin Hall storeroom. Her entire body felt numb as she listened to Draco force the door shut and then push the shelves back into place.

She carelessly stowed the torches in a random box. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw him just standing there.

He stared at the bottom of the bookcase, tense and wide-eyed, as though he expected something to come bursting out any moment.

She realized they couldn't stay in the storeroom any longer for the same reason they couldn't be caught in that corridor. There was _no_ way to know when whoever was accessing that room might return.

"C'mon," she urged, blindly grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him behind her as she darted from the room.

Hermione didn't stop moving until they were outside Slytherin Hall, instead rounding to the far side of the building. Pressing her back to the wall, she finally drew a deep breath, ready to let her legs give out. They needed a minute to calm down, both of them, to let the adrenaline drain out.

"You can let go of me any time, now."

"Sorry," she said, only realizing her fingers were tangled in his shirt when he spoke up.

"What are we going to do?"

"There's nothing _to _do, Granger."

She blinked at him, trying to process his words. "So there's a secret room under Gryffindor—that someone is using for something—and we're not supposed to say anything?"

He frowned darkly, his head tilting to one side as he held her gaze. "Who would believe us? By our own admittance, we're suffering from sleep deprivation, which makes our account of things questionable at best. On top of that, how would we explain finding the bloody room in the first place?"

Oh, damn he was right. Hermione hated it when Draco Malfoy was right, but this all tracked back to that first night. That first night when she'd been in Slytherin Hall, appropriating school property, and he'd covered for her. There was no way to say anything without both of them getting in trouble.

Suddenly another thought struck her. "Who would we tell?"

He merely looked at her, his eyebrows inched fractionally upward.

"We have no idea who's doing . . . whatever in there. What if it's someone on the faculty?"

"Maybe we should just forget we ever found it," he said, his voice calm as he stared at the ground. "You wanted to know what was in there, now you do, and whatever's going on in there has nothing to do with _us_."

"But . . . ." She remembered the odd tension of the corridor, the comparatively welcoming feeling in that weird room_; _remembered Draco's words about the muttering voice in Slytherin. "But what if something wanted us— wanted _you_—to find it?"

"Christ, Granger." He groaned, his grey eyes rolling.

"Think about it." She ignored that as he turned to lean against the wall beside her, his shoulder pressed to hers. "You said that voice was louder and more frequent since we found the window. It said _your _name. We got into the room and _you_ felt something behind you. _You _smelled blood."

"I see. Well, unless that something decides on being a bit clearer about what I was supposed to do in there, I couldn't give a damn. This was stupid."

She shook her head, not insulted—this_ was_ stupid—but in disbelief that something very simple hadn't occurred to either of them. "We should have taken pictures."

His face went blank. Damn, why hadn't he thought of that? Oh, but then . . . . "My mobile's is up in my room."

"I have mine."

Draco set his jaw. "You have yours? You mean you brought your mobile to a secret, middle-of-the-night meeting?"

She arched a brow at him. "This may have been a 'secret meeting,' but I'm still a girl walking about campus on my own in the middle of the night. I may not be in a right mental state lately, but I'm hardly brain-dead, am I?"

"It's so you can call for security?"

Hermione nodded. "Obviously. I've got pepper spray in my boot, too, in case things get sticky."

"Prepared woman."

"Never hurts."

"Who didn't think to take pictures, despite having her mobile on her?"

She could swear she just heard a smile in his voice, responding with a laugh, in spite of herself. "Prat."

They both fell quiet for a moment. She became increasingly aware of the spot where his shoulder touched hers. He didn't feel very warm, nor was he leaning against her; perhaps the rest of her somehow felt cold by comparison.

Draco frowned in thought. Was she right? Had whatever he heard in Slytherin Hall wanted him to find that room? Well, that was an unnerving notion.

"I don't know how to process what just happened," she admitted in a small voice.

Why wasn't she leaving, yet? And why did it seem he couldn't feel anything but the soft pressure of her shoulder against his?

"Just so you know, I think you're a liar," he said suddenly, his tone serious.

Hermione swiveled on her heel to face him, watching his profile with narrowed eyes. "About what?"

He shrugged, his expression bland. Someone needed to get their minds off their bizarre discovery—and hold her accountable for being deceitful earlier. "Back in the corridor, you said you forgot what I asked you. You remembered everything else about that night, so you're either a liar, or you simply didn't want to answer."

"A little of both, I suppose."

He turned to face her, leaning a hip against the wall. "So the answer was . . . ?"

She folded her arms around herself, darting her gaze about. He was right—again—she was being unfair. She didn't imagine his gripe over being protected was a sentiment he shared very often.

"_I'm_ usually the protective one," she said, at last. "I'm the one who tries to shield others from things. That's just the way I've always been. I think I liked it being the other way 'round, for once."

She hadn't even thought the matter through this far before, but now that she'd started to piece together her reaction aloud, she couldn't leave it unfinished. "Being protected felt . . . nice."

"Nice?" His expression chilled as he pushed away from the wall and rounded on her, placing her between himself and the wall. He took half a step, closing the distance between them.

Hermione's eyes widened. She pivoted to face him fully, but stood her ground—she'd never backed down from Draco Malfoy before, she wasn't going to start now—even as she wondered what she'd said that irked him _this_ time.

"That is twice now," he said, his voice low as his gaze dropped to her mouth, "that something I've done has made you feel _nice_."

"Well, I . . . ." She shook her head, but found that she had nothing to say.

He leaned closer, his head tipping to one side, until his lips nearly brushed hers.

"We shouldn't," she whispered, but the tremor in her voice spoke volumes.

That smirk she so loathed tugged at one corner of his mouth. "_Shouldn't_, not can't. Interesting."

Hermione didn't realize she'd stepped back, or that Draco had stepped forward, until her back pressed to the wall. "We hate each other," she reminded, her words no stronger than they'd been a moment ago.

"Yes, we do." He leaned closer, still, whispering in her ear. "But perhaps that's why we _could_. No one would believe it, and isn't there the strangest freedom in that?"

His lips trailed down the side of her throat and she couldn't help that her eyes drifted closed, a pleading little sigh escaping her. He cupped her jaw, angling her head back as he ran the tip of his tongue along her collarbone.

Draco pulled back to look at her, giving her a moment. He wanted to see what _she _would do, given the chance.

Her mind was a bit hazy as she lowered her head to meet his gaze. Of course what he said was true—no one would believe what they were doing. Perhaps there _was_ a strange sort of freedom in this.

Bunching her hands in his shirt, Hermione pulled him closer, catching his bottom lip between both of hers. She nibbled and sucked at the soft skin, oddly delighted in the pained groan it forced from him.

He pressed against her, trapping her body between his and the wall as he swept his hands down her sides. She surprised him by raising her knee to rest her leg over his hip.

She allowed his lip to slide from between hers, her breath heavy. "You said you were curious about what I taste like." She felt ridiculously bold, just repeating those words. "What, exactly, did you mean?"

Draco offered a smug grin. "Been thinking on that, have you?" He rolled his hips forward, pressing between her thighs.

She gasped, her body moving against his of its own volition. Oh, it had been _too _long since she'd even been kissed.

He bit his lip for a long moment before replying, simply watching the expression on her face as he pressed forward again. "I meant that _exactly _as it sounded," he whispered.

His words, and the delicious feel of him grinding himself against her, sent a sharp pulse thudding through her. His hands slid around her, grasping her bottom and pulling her even more tightly to him.

He thrust his tongue between her lips and she moaned into his mouth, lost in the kiss, in the feel of him moving against her.

Lost in the feel of _Draco Malfoy_ pushing himself against her as though they were—

Hermione broke the kiss, putting every bit of strength she had into pushing him away. Even if this felt good—even if what he was doing felt _amazing_, which she hated to admit it _did_—even if no one would find out, this was still _too _fast, still too much for her to handle all at once.

He merely looked at her, catching his breath as he flashed a grin that would make any scoundrel proud. "Problem, Granger?"

"No," she whispered around gulps of air. "I've just never done this sort of thing with someone I hated, before. And I really do hate you, Malfoy."

He watched, half-amused, as she turned and, taking a moment to collect herself, walked away. But then he glanced down at himself, at the bulge in the front of his jeans. His shoulders slumped as his scowl slid into place.

"Probably not half as much as I hate you, Granger."


	8. Echoes

**Chapter Eight**

Echoes

_She shivered, the thin layer of cloth beneath her doing little to shield her body from the cold surface. Instead, she focused on Him—on His deep brown eyes, on the wealth of gleaming, dark-brown curls that framed His face, and the way that the dancing light of the flames around them only made Him more beautiful._

_The gazes of the others flicked from Him, standing above her, always so regal in their simple black robes, to her and back again. She could feel their energy—their understandable mix of joy and jealousy rested against her skin as though the emotions had form._

_His mouth curved charmingly as He looked over her body. "Do you wish to become mine?"_

_Again, she trembled, this time from the warm, delicate stroking of His fingers down her naked side. "Yes, my lord!"_

_He nodded, His smile widening as He leaned closer, carefully pressing the tip of the blade into her flesh._

* * *

Hermione bolted upright, a single, pained holler falling from her lips as she clamped a hand over her arm. Breathing heavily, her gaze swept the dawn-dappled darkness around her as she tried to make sense of what just happened.

There came a pounding at the door, followed by Parvati's voice. "Hermione? Are you all right?"

"Um, ye—yeah."

"Would you like me to come in?"

Hermione shook her head, pushing her hair behind her ear. She wanted to say no, but maybe the presence of another person would settle her nerves. "Yes, sure."

The bedroom light came on and she squinted against the unexpected brightness. Parvati was across the room in a flurry to perch on the edge of Hermione's bed. "I heard you shout."

Only when the other girl grasped her shoulders did Hermione realize she was shaking. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a shuddering breath.

"I'm fine," she forced the words. "I'm sorry, I just—I just had a nightmare."

Parvati's dark eyes were huge as they held Hermione's. "About what?"

"I . . . ." Hermione dropped her gaze. "I don't remember," she said, mumbling her words. She didn't want to lie, but was too unnerved by the imaginary sequence of events to speak on them.

The skin beneath her fingers felt warm. Perhaps she'd flailed in her sleep and banged her limb against the night table? She slid her hand from her arm and gaped in disbelief.

Parvati blinked a few times, trying to banish any residual sleep from her eyes. "Oh God, did . . . did you bump something?"

"I must've," Hermione whispered, her instantly watering gaze on the discoloration marring her upper arm.

"Pray I never get a bruise like that," Parvati said lightly. "Well, you're all right and we're up now, might as well greet humanity's greatest nemesis: Monday Morning."

Hermione nodded, forcing a smile and pushing her quilt away as Parvati stood. She pretended not to notice the mark as she went about getting ready to meet her friends before classes.

But she felt quite the opposite. She was painfully aware of the discolored skin on her arm, as though that tiny patch of flesh was heavier than all the cells surrounding it. The strange shape of the _bruise _rattled her, she couldn't help thinking she'd seen it before.

Last night . . . in the stark contrast of flashlight beams against lines etched in stone.

* * *

_He shifted, uncomfortable beneath his robes. The energy of the others washed over him, drowning out his senses as they watched. He wanted so to get to the revelry, but their lord did enjoy the melodrama of prolonging things. Often He seemed to forget that the night was possessed of but so many hours._

_Silver and crimson glinted in the firelight and he hissed, echoing the others as he felt the searing—as though He dragged the metal across the flesh of each one of them, all at once. But she didn't cry out, at least, not in the way one should expect. Instead, she moaned, writhing in apparent ecstasy, as the tip of the blade dragged along her skin._

_Their lord helped the girl to stand, displaying her for them to see. "I have chosen my bride," He roared for all to hear, a dark and savage joy threading His words._

_The joy he understood, but not the fuss. There were more marks to add, more nights like this, until she was _complete_, but the drawn out nature of the rite allowed for more revelries, so perhaps he could find it in him not to mind._

_The others exploded around him in a sort of exuberant chaos. She was now removed from participating, seated before the fire as a few of them gathered around, petting her hair and stroking her skin, but no more than that. They didn't dare. Their lord stood near, His dark eyes unreadable in the flickering orange light as He watched them all._

_Oh, well. He stretched as he let his robes drop to the ground and turned away from the spectacle of them fawning over her. She had been his favorite, but no matter, with his looks, he was second only to their lord when it came to the others lusting after him._

_A lithe redheaded girl approached him, a wide grin on her face and firelight dancing across her naked curves. As she slung her arms around his neck, he noticed the mark on her skin. Frowning darkly, he glanced at the same spot on his own arm._

_He roved his gaze over the girl's head, looking at each of the revelers in turn. They all shared it; each of them mirrored the bloody symbol on His bride's arm._

_Cold fear twisted his stomach in a knot, even as he slid his hands over the girl's hips. Certainly he'd felt the blade, but only now did he realize that their lord had bound them _all.

* * *

Draco's eyes opened slowly, his vision bleary as he sat up. He wasn't certain if he just woke from a nightmare, or interrupted a sex dream. He prayed not the latter, that redhead was gorgeous.

But he was troubled, his fingers lightly raking his upper arm through the sleeve of his silk night shirt. The bloody symbol on the girl's arm struck him. Had he seen it on the wall of that creepy room?

Yes, of course, he was _so _stupid! He barely refrained from slapping his palm against his forehead. His mind had thrown at him things he imagined that altar might've been used for, which—naturally—had coupled with the state Granger left him in last night.

_Granger . . . . _His jaw set as the memory of her tongue tracing his bottom lip came back to him, distracting him from the dream. The feel of her against him, the sounds she made as he pressed between her—

_Dammit!_

His gaze fell into his lap. This was unacceptable! She was going to pay for this, he decided. Pulling his quilt up over his shoulders, he wrapped it around himself as though he was cold, before grabbing his towel and change of clothes.

The last thing he needed would be for someone to see him in this embarrassing state before he managed to reach the washroom.

Bloody hell, did he _hate _cold showers.

* * *

"God, Harry, you look like hell," Hermione said, her words an exhausted mutter as she took a seat across the table from him.

He forced back a yawn. "Oh, like you're one to talk."

She only grinned sheepishly and began picking at her chocolate chip muffin. "Well, I have an excuse, _I _had a nightmare." She ignored that she'd only had two hours of sleep.

Nightmare or not, that was probably the most sleep she'd gotten in the last week and a half.

Harry's eyes closed slowly as he rolled his head back, an unhappy grumble escaping when he couldn't get the vertebrae in his neck to crack. "So did I."

A golden-brown eyebrow arched at him. "Really? What about?"

"I was . . . ." His mouth pulled into a tight line as he set his head straight and dropped his gaze to the table top. "It's actually a bit disturbing to go into. What about yours?"

He reached toward her plate to pluck out a chocolate chip, but she slapped his hand.

"Ow!"

Hermione just frowned at him. "I don't really remember." God, she hated lying to Harry, but there was no way she could tell him about her dream. That would only lead to _why _she was so upset—certainly the memory was unsettling, but it hadn't actually been very frightening—which would, of course, lead to what she'd done last night.

Oh, God, what she'd _done _last night!

She forced herself to maintain focus on their conversation, despite the delicious little thrill that pulsed between her thighs at the memory him—of _Draco Malfoy_—moving against her. Distantly, she tried to recall exactly when she had lost her mind.

"All I remember is that I woke up scared," she offered in way of explanation, her voice a touch breathless; she only hoped he attributed it to the recollection of waking up in fear.

Again Harry tried to sneak a chip, and again she batted away his hand.

"Why do you keep doing that?" He feigned a pout.

Hermione held onto her frown. "Why don't you get your own breakfast?"

"Fine," he said, yawning as he snatched up a menu from the end of the table.

She had the misfortune of looking toward the door at just the right moment to catch Malfoy entering the shop. Why was she cursed with such abysmal timing lately?

His gaze darted away—scanning for his friends, she thought, checking if they were paying attention to him just yet—and then returned to hers. He raised a brow, just the quickest upward flick, as he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip.

Hermione forced a gulp, her cheeks warmed as that sweet pulse rippled through her once more. She shifted in her seat, grateful Harry's attention was occupied, but Draco had seen it.

He'd seen her face redden, seen the way she squirmed, and he grinned . . . . That cruel, satisfied grin that made her want to deck him. She knew he'd made that expression just for her. His intent was too easy to read in the way he schooled his features _immediately_ after she'd reacted, and strolled casually past their table to join his friends.

"I sincerely hope you don't have to work with that prat much longer." Harry said, almost absently. "You're starting to look like him."

She met his gaze, wide-eyed. "What?"

"You're scowling."

"Oh." Hermione shook her head, doing her best to relax.

Ron burst into the shop, Lavender close at his heels. "You aren't going to believe this!"

Hermione gave a start at the commotion, feeling an instant flare of irritation. So much for her attempt to relax.

Lavender reached for his wrist. "Ron, I really don't think you should—"

"Will you get off me, woman!" He shook off her grasp to frown menacingly at her. "It's better coming from us than he turns on the news and sees it himself."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion, green eyes darting between the two. "What are you going on about?"

Ron produced a newspaper from behind his back and slapped it down on the table. The dreadful words _Possible Riddle Copycat on the Loose? _glared at them from the front page.

Immediately Hermione reached to snatch the paper off the table, to hide the headline before Harry could see it.

He moved just as quick, pinning the paper against the table with the tips of his fingers. His head tipped forward as he looked at her. "Please, stop protecting me," he said quietly.

Her expression immediately become apologetic and she nodded, slumping back in her seat. She couldn't take her eyes from Harry's trembling fingers as he began flipping through the paper.

"Can you believe it?" Ron's tone was higher than usual, cracking under the weight of disbelief, as it did when he panicked. "Even a crazy person shouldn't want to copy Tom Riddle!"

Hermione was instantly aware of silence falling all around them. Cringing, she whispered angrily, "Dammit, Ron."

"Riddle?" an unfortunately familiar voice echoed from the other side of the shop.

_Oh no_, she didn't want to turn around, didn't want to open her eyes, but before she knew it, Draco was at their table. She finally looked up, in time to see him snatch the paper from Harry's hands.

"Oy!" Harry demanded, but Malfoy pretended he didn't hear the protest as he thumbed to the article and scanned the printed words.

Squaring his jaw, Draco slammed the paper back down. His eyes snapped up to lock on Hermione's. "I think we need a chat with our professor."

Without waiting for her response, he turned and strode to the door. A brief glance over his shoulder to find she hadn't budged prompted a single, irritated, word to fall from his lips.

"_Granger_!"

Rolling her eyes, Hermione grabbed her bag, her breakfast forgotten while she mouthed apologies to her friends. She could feel the weight of gazes—not just her friends, but Malfoy's, perhaps even Malfoy's friends—on her as she ducked out of the shop behind him.

She couldn't focus on the why. She understood, quite simply, that they couldn't possibly suspect what happened last night. None of them would ever get used to the sight of her and Draco Malfoy maintaining the close proximity to one another without a palpable hostility hanging in the air.

* * *

Hermione's heart was in her throat as Draco burst through the door of Snape's office, a paper—that he'd made _her_ run by the campus newsstand to grab—in his hand.

Snape's cool, dark eyes rested on them lazily, as though not at all surprised by the sudden intrusion. "What do you two think—?"

"What is this?" Draco said evenly, anger edging his tone as he slammed the paper down on the professor's desk.

Malfoy was stood pin straight, his hands clenching and unclenching in fists and Hermione took half a step away. Part of her felt as though she was watching a caged animal.

To think she'd once believed him weak. Past spineless reactions when he'd thought no one was looking had once painted him a coward in her eyes, but his recent slips in such behavior and his current state of anger that overrode everything else? She didn't have the luxury just now to wonder if those previous cowardly responses were an ingrained part of that protection about which he'd complained last night.

Snape sighed heavily as he turned his attention to the words in front of him. "This is the media's attempt to sell newspapers and . . . whip the public into hysteria."

"You assigned us a serial killer whose method is being duplicated—"

"I've read the article, Mr. Malfoy. One murder does not a serial killing make. Or perhaps you've both lost your ability to comprehend the written word, as the term . . . _possible_ is right there before you."

"Well, Professor, as you can probably imagine, I don't exactly love the idea of having documentation on Riddle's kills in my possession when the police are searching for a copycat—possible or otherwise."

Snape's gaze flicked from Draco's to Hermione's and back before he leveled a tired reply. "You did not read the entire article. The body was discovered yesterday, but the crime was committed weeks ago. To connect your research project—your _randomly_ determined research project—to it would be . . . ridiculous."

Malfoy bared his teeth, giving Hermione a start, as he leaned forward. "Assign us a different subject!"

Arching a brow, Snape folded his hands and sat back in his chair, staring at them imperiously as he uttered a single, absolutely final-sounding, word on the matter.

"No."

"You didn't really think that would work, did you?" She couldn't help asking as they walked down the corridor toward their first class of the morning—certainly they'd be early, but there seemed little point in returning to their friends for such a short time.

Harry had probably devoured that muffin as soon as he'd returned to his senses. Her empty stomach grumbled with regret.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, scowling at the ceiling for a brief moment. "I do not need this right now, Granger." Suddenly he spun on her. "And what was with the silent act in Snape's office? Thank you very much!"

"You heard him; the decision was in his voice from the moment he started speaking," she snapped back at him. "There was no way he was going to reassign us and nothing I could say would have been of assistance. In fact, he'd probably have made our next assignment _more_ difficult!"

The door was locked and Malfoy thumped his fist against it in anger. "I've never wanted to not to something more in my life than this damned paper!"

"That makes two of us," she quipped, finding a tiny bit of humor in how much they seemed to use that phrase on each other.

She turned, leaning back against the wall beside the door. Sliding the strap of her bag down her arm to drop it to the floor, she unconsciously avoided the bruise on her arm.

Something in her ginger movements snagged Draco's attention. He was in front of her instantly, grabbing her wrist.

"Hey!"

He ignored her protests as he roughly pushed her sleeve up her arm. She bit her lip, looking down to find that the mark had faded, but had not yet vanished fully.

Malfoy's face became paler than usual as he stared at it. "Granger, what the hell is that?"

When she didn't respond, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. "I don't know," she whispered, her voice shaky. "I—I had a dream and . . . ." Hermione let her words slide off as she watched him relinquish his hold on her wrist to brush his fingers—absently, like he didn't fully realize he was doing it—over the same place on his own arm.

"Oh no." Her shoulders slumped as she worked her sleeve back in place. "You too?"

"About the altar and the people in the black robes?"

She nodded, the dreadful twisting in the pit of her stomach winding tighter as he nodded back.

"I don't—" She dropped her voice as people began to fill the corridors. "I don't know what's happening."

"Neither do I," he admitted, his expression cold. "As much as I hate to say it . . . ." He snapped his gaze up to lock on hers, assuring himself that he had her full attention. "I think we need to find out more about that room."

Hermione closed her lips against a hopeless sigh. He was right, and she hated it. And she hated the idea of poking around in that room again. _And_ she hated him for showing her that hidden door in the first damned place.

She never imagined she'd find so many new levels on which to hate Draco Malfoy. Honestly, keeping up with how much she disliked him was getting exhausting.


	9. Awkward

**Okay, so something a li'l crazy happened- I found a Black Widow x Winter Soldier plunnie in the Plunnie Box over the weekend, but since I'm a comic &amp; gamer chick, this doesn't qualify as a Plunnie of Doom, thus I will post that story under my Freya Ishtar account, **_**not**_** Apocalyptic Freya. So if anyone gets an email alert for chapter one of **_**Shadows in Winter,**_**don't panic; no ships, fandoms, or stories are being abandoned to make room for it. :)**

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Awkward

Harry's jaw set as he watched Hermione trail Malfoy out the door. "I can't wait 'til she's done with this bloody class."

When he turned back toward the table, he found Ron and Lavender occupying the other side of the booth, both their gazes following the mismatched pair, as well. Ron's face was scrunched up in what Harry thought was meant as an expression of anger, but the mask barely hid what his friend felt.

However, Harry thought if he was going to act so jealous now—of something that _wasn't_ even a thing—perhaps that was consequence he should have thought of before he'd cheated on Hermione with his ex-girlfriend, Lavender. Wait, that wasn't entirely true. As Lavender told the story, Ron hadn't actually mentioned to _her_ that they were broken up, so technically he was cheating on Lavender with Hermione, while cheating on Hermione with Lavender. . . . Something like that.

For nearly two years, Hermione couldn't talk to another boy without Ron swearing they were hitting on her. On occasion he'd been correct, of course, but then there were times he'd been so far off-base that all she did was laugh and point out that who was, or wasn't, interested in her was no longer his concern—a fact that was his own fault.

Harry just shook his head. He'd tried to sort it out several times already, and finally decided he was just glad they'd all shut up about it and moved on.

"I hope she's making his life hell," Ron muttered, reaching for Hermione's forgotten chocolate chip muffin.

Unable to resist, Harry slapped Ron's hand away and pulled the plate closer to himself.

"Ow!"

"I don't know," Lavender said, her voice taking on an almost dreamy quality as she rested her chin in her palm. "They almost look good together."

Harry and Ron exchanged a horrified glance before both turning to gape at the girl.

As though she could feel the weight of their gazes, Lavender turned her head slowly to look at each of them in turn. "Oh, I mean . . . if he wasn't such an ill-mannered, foul-tempered, unforgivably spoiled prat."

Lumping together the majority of Malfoy's most notable negative traits seemed to settle Harry and Ron.

"I know you were all trying to protect me, but honestly," Harry started, his gaze pointedly touching upon the newspaper as he started picking—guilt-free, now—at the chocolate chips, "I don't care about that."

"Are you mad?" Ron's eyebrows shot up into his overly-long ginger bangs. "There might be someone out there trying to . . . ." He leaned across the table and dropped his voice, as though it would make the words easier to say. "To copy the way your parents' murderer killed people!"

"_Might_ be," Harry echoed shortly, snatching up the paper and crushing it into a ball. "But it's _not_ Riddle, so I don't really care. And my parents _didn't_ die that way."

Lily Evans had died a hero, crawling to the lockbox to retrieve the handgun while James had struggled with Riddle. She wasn't able to move quickly enough—not with such severe wounds—to save James, but she had gotten off a lucky shot on Riddle. Hours later, she succumbed to her injuries, but not before officials reassured her that her son would not be connected to such a terrible tragedy.

As far as Harry was concerned, his mother had saved Riddle's next victims in her last hours of life.

"You're right, I'm—I'm sorry," Ron said, forcing a weak half-smile.

"'S okay." Harry shook his head, refusing to think any more on the matter.

A noisy yawn erupted out of Lavender as she gave an almost painful-looking stretch. Both sets of male eyes pinned her, their mouths hanging open.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Ron asked, trying not to laugh. "Did you just murder a swan?"

"Sorry," she said with a quick, awkward giggle. "I guess I just didn't sleep well last night. I had this weird . . . . Hmm. I _want_ to say dream, but I'm not really sure. Maybe nightmare is a better word for it."

Ron's face puckered in confusion. "What do you mean, you're not sure? Was it a nightmare or not?"

"Well, that's what I mean." She gave an angry pout and shook her head. "There wasn't anything scary about it, just . . . strange, but when I woke up, I had this sense like what was going on was _really _bad. In fact, I think I had that feeling throughout the entire dream, just under the surface."

When Lavender finished explaining, she looked from Ron to Harry, and back again. There was confusion, still, on both their faces, but there was also a bit of fear now, as well.

"I had a dream that felt like that last night, too," Ron whispered, his brow furrowing.

Harry glanced toward the door of the shop as he said in a low tone, "Me, too. Hermione also said she had a dream that scared her last night."

A moment of heavy, strained silence wrapped around the table. After shifting uncomfortably in their seats, Harry chose to force the conversation forward. "What were your dreams about?"

"I don't want to say," Ron and Lavender blurted simultaneously before giving one another a shocked look.

"Hang on." Harry held up a hand. "I said the same thing when Hermione asked me. She said she couldn't remember hers, but . . . maybe she only said that 'cause she didn't want to talk about it, either."

Lavender lowered her gaze to the tabletop. "This is really weird. I mean, even for Rowling, right?"

"I don't know," Harry said as Ron shrugged. "We're all still a bit new here; maybe this sort of thing happens at Rowling."

"All right," she conceded with a brief nod. "Maybe then we should . . . say what they were about? You know, in case they were all completely unrelated really weird dreams, with . . . highly _coincidental_ timing."

Ron and Harry both opened their mouths, their protests dying on their lips as Lavender's mobile chimed. The set of her shoulders eased instantly, the change in her posture telling them she was no more eager to discuss it than they were.

"Well, time to get to class," she tried for sounding chipper, but the relief in her voice drowned out the attempt.

They all nodded, still feeling a touch awkward as they scrambled out of their seats. Harry snatched up the muffin before Ron could, the balled up newspaper in his other hand.

He was only too happy to cram it into the wastebasket. That was really the only place_ anything _bearing Tom Riddle's name belonged.

* * *

Hermione frowned at the computer screen—another dead language, another bunch of images and squiggly lines that looked nothing like what they'd seen on those walls. Nothing like the mark still fading on her upper arm.

"I'm not seeing anything that matches," she said miserably.

Draco groaned, pushing out of the seat he'd occupied for the last twenty minutes, staring listlessly at the library shelves, while she'd combed the internet for valid information on ancient script. He leaned over her chair, peering at the screen over her shoulder.

"Are you sure you're looking in the right places?"

She scoffed, "I get better grades than _you_ and you think I can't handle a search engine?"

"Don't get so pissy," he said, his tone infuriatingly dismissive as he leaned closer still, thoughtlessly covering her hand with his as he used the mouse to scroll down the page.

"You think pressing your face to the screen is going to magically make them match?"

Malfoy sneered. "Well, maybe you're remembering them wrong."

"Me? Why is this suddenly all on _me_ to remember? You were in that room, too!"

She turned to face him, realizing with a start how close he really was. Only when she slid his hand from beneath his, did he seem to finally notice, as well.

He jerked back a suddenly, as though stung by something, and then straightened up. He couldn't decide what was worse, that terrible constant awareness inching along his skin when she was too close, or the moments—brief though they were, moments like the one just now—when they were _too_ comfortable being close to each other.

"You never did tell me exactly what happened," she forced the words out.

His brow furrowed, as though he didn't quite understand her words.

"In your dream," she elaborated, ignoring that holding his gaze made her skin feel warmer. "I told you about what I saw, and you said yours was _similar_, which means whatever you experienced was _like_ my dream, but not the same. So how was yours different?"

Draco cleared his throat, looking at the floor as he resumed his seat. "Well, you said you woke up after he started cutting your arm?"

Hermione nodded.

"I was one of the . . . people watching." He shifted in the chair, and for some reason, she found his un-Draco-Malfoy-like discomfort interesting. "You see, after the symbol was cut, a _celebration _broke out."

Chestnut eyes narrowed. "What sort of celebration?"

"The sort that would lead me to believe we were participants in some sort of . . . pagan sex rite."

She forced a breath. "Pagan se—" she cut herself off, blinking in disbelief. "I see."

He offered a mute nod, one eyebrow lifting.

"That doesn't seem right," she murmured thoughtfully.

Draco laughed, short but harsh. "I _know_ what I saw."

"No, I don't mean . . . ." She frowned at him, shoulders drooping for a second. "I mean pagans are traditionally worshipers of nature, they're not evil. What was happening in that dream felt . . . wrong and dark; _un_natural."

His customary scowl slipped over his features, making her wonder if the bitter expression was a defense mechanism—was he actually aware he made that face so often, or did he no longer even notice?

"What difference would it make? We're no closer to knowing what that means," he made a vague waving motion at her arm.

He was right. _Again? Dammit! _But they were missing something.

"There are magical alphabets we could try, but we still don't have any context for what they mean." _What if we can't find the symbols because . . . _. She sat up a bit straighter, causing him to look up at her.

"Granger?"

"What if we can't find it because it's not an actual language?"

His eyebrows shot up. "I don't follow."

"Like a code or a specific dialect? Something those people _made up_ themselves?"

"It would still be based on something, likely a combination of different written languages."

"Well, now, you are more than just a pretty face," she quipped, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

He simply stared at her moment before that smug, aggravating grin curved one corner of his mouth upward. "So you think I have a pretty face?"

"Shut up," she snapped, rolling her eyes.

"All right, code or not, we still need to see the actual writing before we can attempt to decipher it."

Hermione sighed heavily. "You're right."

"I know."

"Which means—"

"Exactly."

Throwing her head back, she let out a defeated groan. She did _not _want to go back to that room.

"However . . . ."

Setting her head straight, she met his gaze. "However?"

"Well, what if we could get back in there without having to go through that tunnel?"

"But there's no other way in."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands before him. "We don't need to get inside; we just need to _see_ inside."

Her face scrunched in doubt. "The window?"

Draco nodded.

"We can't unbrick the window, we'll be seen, or whoever's using that room will know it's been found."

"Not the entire thing, just a brick or two. Just enough that we can take pictures of the walls." Frowning thoughtfully, he reached out, grasping one of her wrists and lifting her hand. "Your hands are small, one brick should do."

Hermione looked from his face to his hand around her wrist and back before pulling out of his hold. "I can't believe we're even discussing this, it's mad."

* * *

"I can't believe we're _doing_ this," she rephrased, staring daggers at the back of Malfoy's pale-blonde head as they made their way to Gryffindor Hall. "It's _beyond_ mad."

"We're not actually doing anything right now," he reminded, his voice tight. "Right now, we're just going to see if any of them are loose enough to work out easily."

"If there are?" She couldn't help glancing around as they walked; feeling like everyone was watching them. They were only receiving scattered looks of mild interest here and there, but she couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on them.

"Then lucky us, we can get the pictures now."

Something in his tone told her that he purposefully left off the rest of his statement. "And if not," she prompted, dreading his conclusion.

"We come back later and chisel one out."

She ignored the word later, even though she knew what he meant. He meant at night, but he didn't want to say that. They weren't exactly having the best luck with mental clarity at night, recently.

"Chisel," she mumbled, a lift of question in her voice.

He shrugged. "A hammer and a flat head screwdriver. It's hardly rocket science."

"I don't like this," she muttered as they reached the building and ducked around the side. "You know, we should be working on our Riddle research."

Draco flashed her a bored look. "And I'm the mad one? Do you really want to focus on Riddle right now, knowing there maybe someone out there doing the_ same_ thing to people?"

"Not really." She came to a halt beside the bricked up window and turned to face him. "But we have to get it done eventually. We've only got one week left."

"Please, between you and me, that's more than enough time for some sodding research paper. I just think we can wait a day or two, until this copycat-thing either has more information to prove or discredit it, or at least it's not so fresh in our minds."

Hermione just blinked at him. Draco Malfoy was actually being reasonable. So he could be reasonable, and feel discomfort. Oh, dear, if he kept that up, she might start to think he was a normal human being.

"You're right."

"I know."

_This certainly sounds familiar, she thought_, bristling at the sight of his self-satisfied smirk. More normal human being or not, she was suddenly repressing the sore temptation to deck him.

Kneeling, she pressed on the bricks, one after the other. With each unsuccessful push, her heart sank a bit lower. She could _not_ be out with him at night again. Not with their current track record.

One gave way beneath her fingers, startling her, and it fell into the room. She exchanged a quick, worried look with Malfoy. Cringing, she waited for any sound from inside. When nothing came, he nodded slowly.

Fishing out her mobile, Hermione flicked on the light and peered into the room, angling the beam around. Everything looked the same, everything accept . . . ."There's something on the altar," she whispered, her voice hollow.

Though he wasn't very close to her, she was aware of how tense he became in that instant. "Well, hurry up. Take a picture of the altar, and then get whichever walls you can." He strolled to the corner of the building that faced the quad and casually leaned against Gryffindor Hall, roving his gaze about as inconspicuously as possible.

"Fine, but if something bites my hand off, I swear I'll use my other one to pummel you to death," she seethed, rolling her eyes.

Of course he'd play lookout while she did the dirty work. Before taking the first shot, she looked around again, reassuring herself that the chamber was empty. Satisfied, she snapped off as many as she felt safe getting; one of the altar, one of the ceiling—or at least as much of it as she could get at this vantage point— and two of each of the walls, save the one she had her wrist sticking through.

Extracting her hand, and making a quick count that all her fingers were still there, just in case, she jumped to her feet. When she approached Malfoy, however, he didn't budge, didn't look over his shoulder, gave no acknowledgement that she was there.

Refraining from another eye roll, she scrolled through her pictures. "Okay, I may be wrong, but that looks like a bundle of cloth."

"Hmm?" He glanced over his shoulder at her, but returned his attention forward, to whatever he'd been looking at a moment ago.

"What could possibly have you so fascinated?"

Again, he glanced at her, his expression severe. "Follow me."

Without waiting for her response, he started off, cutting across the quad.

Hermione groaned and shook her head, dragging her feet to trail after him. This was happening entirely too often. To her surprise, he led her to an area behind the old church. No one really came near the place—everyone said the vibe of the disused church grounds was far too unsettling.

He came to stop in a patch of bare, dry soil. She thought that strange. Bare soil in the middle of a field of spring grass for no apparent reason. She was positive this was accepted as simply another one of those Rowling-things, if anyone noticed it at all, but now she couldn't help thinking of the barren bit of earth as suspicious.

He turned slowly, his gaze roving with the movement before coming to rest on the steepled rooftops behind her head. "This is the spot," his voice was barely audible and she had to step closer to hear him. "This is where the—the _rite_ in that dream took place."

She felt a chill creep across her skin as she looked over her shoulder, following his gaze. "You're sure?"

"Positive. I remember looking around. And the church was there, in the background. I just had no reason to pay mind to it at the time."

"Yeah, I'd imagine you were distracted," she muttered.

A smug tone threaded his words, "Is that jealousy I hear, Granger?"

"Not on your life, Malfoy," she spat the words out. "And you're sidetracking."

"You're right."

"I know. You're _sure_ this is the spot?"

"I told you already, yes! The altar—the one from that room—was here," he pointed to the center of the ring of bare soil.

Biting lip, Hermione turned to fully face the crumbling structure. "Dark rites were performed on church ground?"

"Seems so. No one's set foot in there in hundreds of years, who knows what's gone on since."

She shook her head, trying to get her bearings, trying to think around the jagged chunk of ice their conversation had dropped into the pit of her stomach. Against her better judgment, she backpedaled, knowingly stepping closer to Draco as she held up her mobile.

"I think maybe we should worry about what's going on_ now_," she said cryptically, opening the picture of the altar.

Malfoy finally gave it his full attention, unaware of closing his fingers around hers as he brought the device closer to examine the bundle of dark cloth. "Are those . . . robes?"

"Suddenly studying Riddle doesn't seem so awful."

"I'm inclined to agree. Let's . . . let's pretend we never found this."

"Agreed," she nodded, slipping her hand from his to put her mobile away.

In silent, unanimous agreement, Draco and Hermione turned and began walking away from the sad, unnerving little building and the suspicious patch of dead soil.

She couldn't help pausing, couldn't resist glancing over her shoulder. The faint sensation of her skin buzzing, that tingling press of eyes on her, had crept up on her.

Beside her, he shook his head, urging her forward with a splayed hand against the small of her back. "I feel it, too. Let's just keep _moving_."


	10. Curious Things

**CHAPTER TEN**

Curious Things

_He lifted the cup to its lips, eyes fearfully narrowed as he watched it slurp at the thick crimson liquid._

_"One . . . more . . ." it choked out, pushing the cup away._

One more_, the servant thought with a frown._ _It overestimated its strength. No matter, he would retrieve as many as necessary._

_The servant shuddered, a small, but sudden jolt coursing through him._

_A smile split its twisted face. "Ah . . . something . . . _stirs_."_

Something stirs, _the servant repeated the words silently. Relief swept through him—so great his knees almost buckled beneath him. It had felt the pulsing spike of energy._

_Everything would be all right. Perhaps his error had not been so grave. It would make everything better, and he would ensure that._

_Whatever was necessary._

* * *

Hermione tossed and turned, but then, what was new? She couldn't get out of her head that bizarre moment with Malfoy outside the church yesterday evening. There had been no dream last night, but then she'd only managed an hour of sleep—if that much—so perhaps she simply hadn't given her body time to enter REM state.

Holding in a groan, she sat up, folding her arms around her knees. The script on the walls was still gibberish, they were still no closer to motives for Riddle—though she was starting to think they should find a way to build from lack of evidence, rather than what little evidence was present—and she was beginning to realize that the more time she spent in Draco's presence, the more often her internal dialogue turned to repeating her hatred for him. Over and over again.

As though some part of her thought she might forget.

Yes, of course, she'd told Malfoy they wouldn't look into anything to do with that room anymore, but she couldn't help herself. Not that it mattered, since her search still turned up nothing—so she might as well not have looked at all—but her curiosity was a noisier presence in the back of her head than usual.

Pushing away the quilt and climbing out of bed, she padded to the window. The spires of the tiny, dilapidated church rose in the distance, nearly lost against the darkness of the night sky.

She traced the steeples with the tip of a finger against the glass. That sensation of being watched . . . . Malfoy's unprompted admittance that he'd felt it, too.

Whenever she thought on that moment, the spot on her back where he'd pressed his hand to keep her walking tingled in a way that made her breath come up short. _Just like now_, she realized in an odd sort of dread as she forced herself to inhale normally.

A shadow darted outside of the church and Hermione froze. Silly response, as though whatever was down there could see her.

Steeling her nerves, she leaned closer to the glass, eyes narrowed. The shadow moved again and she reflexively jumped back.

The movement wasn't her imagination—oh, why couldn't anything just be her imagination, lately—someone was lurking about outside the church. Likely that was probably Hagrid or Filch.

Though, they had every right to walk the grounds at this hour, so why would either of them need to _lurk_?

Hermione bit deep into her bottom lip, backing away from the window. Who that was didn't matter, why they were there didn't matter. She was going to get back under the covers and close her eyes and stay that way until her alarm sounded.

They could be dangerous. Whatever they were doing was none of her business!

So why, in the name of God, was she shoving her feet into a pair of boots and dropping her mobile in the pocket of her nightclothes as she crept to the door? Tip-toeing down the corridor and descending the staircase, she couldn't help picturing a tiny image of herself—a mini-Hermione—sitting in the back of her head. Mini-Hermione repeatedly slapped her palm against her forehead as she tried to figure out just what the bloody hell Regular-Sized-Hermione thought she was doing.

The frivolous imagining did little to settle her nerves as she slipped through the front door and eased it shut behind her. Learning from her previous instances of traipsing across campus in the dead of night, she wasted little time looking around, assuring herself no one was about, before darting across the quad.

Locking her gaze on the church, she hurried along, determined to ignore any Rowling things that might pop up along her way. She hugged herself as she drew near, uncertain if she shivered from a chill in the air or from fear, but unwilling to give the sensation enough consideration to figure out which.

The steeple loomed overhead and Hermione stepped into its shadow. She skirted the edge of the building, her footfalls as delicate and silent as she could manage.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded to herself and pressed to the wall, inching forward slowly until she could see around the corner of the building.

Her jaw dropped open at the sight of a pale-blond head. He was hunched down, peering through one of the cracked stained glass windows.

"Malfoy?"

Draco bolted upright, spinning on a heel to face her. Immediately he slammed a palm against his chest and forced out a loud, aggravated breath. "Dammit, Granger!" He leaned against the window, letting his head fall back as he whispered, "We have got to stop meeting like this."

She would have smirked, if not for the fact that he seemed a bit paler than usual. "What are you doing out here?" Her whisper was barely audible as she came out of her hiding place.

He frowned darkly, gaze rolling up to regard the church. "I couldn't sleep. Again. I glanced out the window and happened to see a light coming from inside here."

Her heart thumped painfully even as she stepped closer, bending to peer through the crack in the window as he'd been doing when she found him. "You're joking."

"Yes, because I'd be out here if I didn't fully believe my own eyes, sure," he grumbled

She didn't have to look at him, she could tell by his tone he was scowling. Hermione couldn't make out anything beyond dark, blobby shapes against an even darker backdrop. "Did you see anything when you got here?"

"Whoever I saw must've left. What of you? Why are _you_ out here?"

"Because I saw someone creeping about the place. How was I to know_ you _were that someone?" She laughed softly as she shook her head. "And you said _I'd_ be an awful cat burglar."

"Whatever, there's clearly nothing here, now. We should—"

"I'm telling you, I know what I saw!" Filch's angry voice cut through their hushed conversation.

"And I'm telling you, ain't no one comes out here anymore," Hagrid's voice boomed, despite a clear attempt at whispering. "Daft old man."

"You should respect your elders."

"Start acting respectable and we'll talk," Hagrid chuckled.

Hermione turned wide eyes on Malfoy, but he was already moving. Clamping a hand around her elbow, he hurriedly pulled her with him around the far side of the building. The wall bowed inward, creating a funny little shadowed nook.

"Shh," he cautioned, staring over her head, out into the tiny graveyard. Of all the unfortunate hiding places he could have stumbled upon . . . .

She had the oddest impression that he had his finger against his lips. Clearly he paid no mind to how he was pinned behind her in the cramped makeshift alcove, or that, even if she was facing him, there was too little light to see each other.

The security guards' clomping footsteps drew closer and Hermione shrank back, holding her breath. Her heart thumped so fast and hard against her ribs she thought they might hear it.

The men rounded the building, but only when when they'd completed their circling did Hagrid bellow, "D'you see now? Nobody's here!" His sigh was audible from the other side of the structure. "Daft old man," he said again, stomping away.

"I'm telling you, I saw someone out here," Filch insisted angrily, though his voice grew fainter.

"Before or after you finished off a pint?"

The argument continued, but their words became increasingly unintelligible, the further they walked.

Hermione dragged in a breath, nearly collapsing against Draco as all the tension drained out of him. The weight of her against him without warning pushed him into the wall.

"Dammit, Granger," he hissed—he certainly said that often, lately.

She felt the rush of his breath ghosting over the side of her throat and tensed all over again. Her breath echoed in her ears and she was painfully aware of the feel of his chest behind her, rising and falling.

"You were right," she said, her words low and trembling.

"I know." His voice was smug. "About what this time?"

Hermione let her head rolled to one side against his shoulder. She was so tired; tired of her fear, tired of her curiosity, tired of being _tired_ . . . tired of these moments.

These moments of enjoying something she shouldn't even want.

"We have got to stop meeting like this," she murmured.

Well, if this wasn't a hint, he didn't know what was. He slid his hands over her hips, tipping his head down so that his lips brushed her ear as he spoke. "You're the one who followed me."

She let her eyes drift closed, wishing he'd stop talking and start using his teeth. "I told you I didn't know that was you."

"Mm-hmm." His lips closed around her earlobe and she shuddered, pressing back even more tightly. "Let a man dream, will you?"

A sigh escaped her as he ran the tip of his tongue down the side of her throat. The sound of leaves rustling in the breeze caught her attention. She tried to push it away, to focus on the feel of his fingertips, dipping beneath her shirt to trace over her abdomen; on the warmth of his mouth on her skin.

But the rustling reminded her of where they were. Pressed up against an abandoned church, in the dark, facing a _graveyard_. Hiding was fine, but this was a bit much.

"Malf—Draco, stop," she whispered urgently, pulling out of his arms—even as her mind teased her with imaginings of his hands tearing at her clothes as he lowered himself to his knees before her—as she stepped from the shadowed nook to turn and look at him.

"Draco?" He echoed, wide-eyed, following her from the darkened crevice. "You've never—"

"I wanted to make sure I have your attention."

"Well, you've got it," he finished, cringing, as though the syllables were painful to say, "_Hermione_."

For a moment, she was put off by how bizarre her name falling from his lips sounded. Shaking her head, she wrapped her arms around herself and concentrated on her words. "What exactly is this?"

Draco's brow furrowed, his gaze flicking about. "This what?"

Scowling, she gestured in a circle, indicating both of them and the stupid damned nook. "This!"

He took half a step back, grey eyes narrow as replied, "Two people enjoying themselves?" His voice was flat, giving her the impression he wanted to emphasize that there was nothing more to it than _that_.

"Oh, get over yourself," she muttered. "I mean you still can't stand me, and I still can't stand you, yet it seems like we can't be alone in the dark without ending up all over each other."

A thoughtful expression crossed his face as he nodded. "Sounds about right."

"If this sort of thing is going to keep happening—"

"Which it probably will . . . ."

"Then we need to set some ground rules or something."

"Ground rules," he echoed.

"Well, I don't imagine your friends would be any more forgiving than mine if this was found out. We might get bored with each other before we finish our assignments for Snape's class, or what if we don't, and we keep at this after the term is done? We'll have no valid reason to disappear anywhere together."

"You're right."

"I know," she said, taking a cruel sort of joy from the way his jaw set.

He reached out, hooking a finger into the waistband of her nightclothes and tugging her closer. Offering a wicked grin he flicked his tongue over her bottom lip and ducked his head to kiss her neck.

Her eyelids fluttered at the feel of him nipping and lapping at her skin. "Are you going to listen, or not?"

"You can keep talking," he mumbled, his lips brushing over her pulse. "I'll try to listen, but . . . no promises."

"You're insufferable."

"Oh, like you didn't know." His hands slid beneath her shirt again, circling her, stroking his fingers down the bare skin of her back.

"You're not making this easy," she whispered, unable to stop her own hands from slipping under his clothes.

Hermione repressed a grin as the tips of her fingers traced over the lines and curves of lean abdominal muscles. Draco Malfoy was fit, who knew?

"That wasn't really my intention," he said, leaning back from her a little. He lowered his head, scraping his teeth over her breast through her cotton top. "However," he went on, raising his head again to meet her gaze, "I can think of much better uses for your mouth than talking."

Laughing in spite of herself, she shoved him away and spun on a heel. "I'm completely serious."

"Fine, fine. I know," he muttered, grumpy, as he started walking. "I'm just not very good with rules."

"All right," she said thoughtfully, only a few steps behind him as she tapped a finger against her chin. "So we keep them simple."

"_Fine_, Granger, I'm listening." He leaned a hip against one of the old gravestones and folded his arms across his chest.

"I think the first thing, is that we be careful about where and when this happens. If we both go missing at the same times—for the same _amount_ of time—people are going to start to wonder."

"Agreed."

"Whether we stop, or keep at this, it doesn't interfere with our academics."

"Agreed."

"Last, no emotional attachment."

He scoffed, shaking his head and laughing. "Yeah, don't think we'll need to worry about that."

Hermione rolled her eyes as she frowned at him. "Tell me about it, _but _stranger things have happened, it would be stupid not to plan for it on the off-chance."

"I suppose you're right," he conceded with a scowl.

"I know I'm right." She smiled at his irritation. "If either of us starts thinking of this from an emotional perspective, it's over."

"Agreed." He snatched her wrist and pulled her close, covering her mouth with his.

She leaned into him, allowing his tongue to slip between her lips. She caressed it with her own, letting out an angry little groan when he broke the kiss.

"We wasted a lot of time talking," he pointed out, grinning wickedly at her reaction. "Should probably get back."

"You're right."

"I—"

She clapped a hand over his mouth, cutting off his words. "Don't."

Gaze locked on hers, he parted his lips to delicately stroke her palm with the tip of his tongue. She let out a harsh, trembling sigh, enjoying the feel of his mouth working her skin, before reluctantly withdrawing her hand.

Giving herself a shake, she pulled her mobile from her pocket to check the time. "Oh, God, it's almost four."

"See?"

"Goodnight, Malfoy." She turned and walked away.

Draco watched her disappear around the side of the church and leaned a hand on the grave stone. Frowning, he brushed his fingers back and forth before bending to look at it.

"Granger!"

Malfoy's urgent whisper made her turn around. He stood near the back of the building, waving for her to come back.

"Bloody hell," she hissed, stomping back over to him. "What?"

"I think I've found what those symbols mean."

She froze. "I thought we were leaving all that alone."

"How can we when we trip over connections to it?"

"What?"

"I think they're carved into the gravestones—or at least one of them is. C'mon, turn on the light on your mobile and I'll show you."

She did not want to go back toward the cemetery. "No."

"You're not serious."

"At least not now, okay?" She shook her head, hugging herself as she quickly glanced around. "Look whatever's there will still be there tomorrow. Please, let's come back after class, when it's light out."

"Fine." His shoulders hunched and he stepped away from the building to cross the quad beside her.

The walk was actually comfortable, much to Hermione's surprise. They didn't speak, barely acknowledged each other, but maybe everything was just easier now that they knew where they stood with one another.

At the half-way point between their Halls, he halted and turned to face her. "I also suppose we should think of better places."

Her brow furrowed. She was too tired for her brain to function properly. "What are you talking about?"

"For our non-academic activities." He leaned close, whispering so that his breath touched her lips. "Unless you want someone to catch us while I'm . . . sating my curiosity."

_Hating you doesn't mean I can't be curious . . . . About what you taste like. _Oh, if what he'd done on her palm was a sample of how talented his mouth was . . . .

She let out a tiny, shivering sigh. "You're terrible, Malfoy."

He smirked wickedly. "Oh, like you didn't know," he quipped for the second time that night before turning on a heel and heading toward Slytherin.

Hermione bit her bottom lip hard as she watched him walk away. Tossing her head back and letting out a frustrated groan, she continued on her way to Gryffindor.

* * *

Lavender pushed her blanket off and climbed out of bed, posture drooping from exhaustion. Frowning sleepily, she cast a glance at her clock. Almost four a.m. This hour was so ungodly, it shouldn't even exist, not even for middle of the night trips to the toilet.

Yawning, she scratched at her scalp and turned toward the door. Her gaze flicked toward the window and she stopped in her tracks. She'd recognize that head of pale-gold hair from a mile away.

But . . . . Frowning, she drew closer to the glass. _Who's that with him?_

"No," she whispered, disbelief threading her tone as she recognized Hermione. "What the bloody hell?"

They were just walking. Not speaking, not appearing to even realize there was another human being beside them.

Then they stopped. They stopped and began talking. He leaned in close.

Lavender's hand flew up to cover her mouth, muffling a tiny gasp. _Had he just kissed her? _No, no . . . okay, heart attack averted, but that was a _very_ close conversation.

She turned away from the window, wide eyes blinking several times in rapid succession as she tried to process what she'd just seen. Dropping her hand, she placed it lightly over her heart.

Finally, _finally_, after all this time, she had something on Hermione. She'd at last be able to get even for that wretched pain Hermione had caused her. Honestly—how could she have _not_ known that Lavender'd still been dating Ron? Was Hermione laughing at her when she'd gone after him? The even ground she'd wanted since, the level playing field . . . .

But suddenly Lavender wasn't so sure she could bring herself to use it.


	11. The Thirteenth Grave

**Chapter Eleven**

The Thirteenth Grave

_His gaze traveled the length of his arm, tracing over the ghostly image of each symbol. Everything was perfect. Their Lord's bride was ready._

_So why did his stomach knot with unease as their Lord approached him?_

_There was something beneath the charming smile; _something_ crept behind those friendly dark eyes. He shifted nervously, but dared not move._

_He dared not flinch, nor even let his breath shorten despite that immediately following each blink of his eyes—for the barest second—he felt certain their lord's perfect white teeth were rotted, jagged, colored the disturbing rust-red hue of old blood. The whites of His eyes flooded with slick, oily blackness._

_But only for that scant moment in time, then his vision cleared, and the handsome, smiling face of their Lord was normal again._

_"Come with me," He said softly, slipping an arm around his shoulders. "There is a task which only you can perform."_

_Nodding stiffly, he fell into step beside their lord, ignoring the feel of his heart hammering, sharp and painful, inside his chest._

* * *

Harry shot up in bed, his gaze darting about the room wildly as he dragged down huge gulps of air.

Everything felt the same as the first nightmare . . . . And yet, still different, somehow. Touching trembling fingers to his cool, damp brow, he tried to make sense of what he'd just experienced.

The sequence of events was different, but the people, the place, were the same. Black robes, firelight, grass beneath bare feet . . . .

_Bloody jagged teeth . . . ._

He shook his head, trying to banish the fragmentary image. The nervous fear that twisted in his gut during the dream persisted, inching along his skin, making his movements jerking and uncertain as he pressed a hand to his pounding forehead.

_Dark, soulless eyes . . . ._

The deep-seated sense of familiarity with those gathered around him should have afforded him at least a modicum of comfort, yet it only strengthened his dread.

How had Lavender put it? _There wasn't anything scary about it__, just . . . strange, but when I woke up, there was this sense like what was going on was really bad. In fact, I think I had that feeling throughout the entire dream, just . . . under the surface. _That sounded exactly right.

Forcing a long sigh, he shook his head and checked his clock. He held in a groan as he stood and began gathering a change of clothes. A few more minutes and the alarm would sound, anyway.

"Good morning, Harry," he said in an unhappy grumble, determined not to let anyone realize how drained he was.

He would not have Hermione hovering around him like some overprotective mother hen. She'd barely been able to keep that tendency under wraps _before _the whole Riddle Copycat article mess.

He was suddenly even gladder that he'd never gotten to discuss the dreams with Ron and Lavender—the silence on the matter made it all the easier for him to pretend nothing was wrong.

* * *

"I still don't like this," Hermione said, muttering the words as she followed Malfoy back to the cemetery.

"I could be wrong about the gravestones. If I am, then fine; we go back to leaving it alone." He tacked on in an irritated tumble of words, "Just humor me, Granger."

"Fine."

She'd felt off all day and she severely doubted that returning to the old graves was going to put her in any better spirits. Harry wasn't quite himself and she couldn't shake the impression that Lavender was looking at her funny. As though . . . she wanted to say something, but didn't know how to start. Poor Neville had been so tired this morning that he'd nearly fallen, face-first, into his plate of pancakes.

And Ron, well, Ron was _Ron_, and that was odd enough.

"Okay, look." He knelt beside one of the graves and held out a hand toward her.

Sighing and shaking her head, she pulled up a picture of one of the walls in the hidden room and set her mobile in his palm. As he zoomed in on the different symbols, looking for a match, she couldn't help casting a glance behind her at the church. She wondered if the building was any less unsettling when it had still been in use.

"There it is," he said, the sudden announcement startling her.

Frowning, she leaned over his shoulder, peering at the screen, and then at the symbol etched in the stone. "You know what," she whispered, "I really hoped they wouldn't match."

His eyes drifted closed as he willed himself to ignore the feel of her breath against the side of his neck. This was the middle of the day, they were in public—anyone could walk up on them—and they were doing something important.

Clearing his throat, Draco shook his head. "That makes two of us. In a way, this makes sense. He used the symbols to connect them all, so that's probably what they are. Like you said,_ they_ created them, and I think that was how they identified themselves."

She shrugged, nodding. "Or at least to identify who they _felt_ they were when they participated in these ceremonies. Whoever these people were, they probably kept that part of themselves secret to anyone who wasn't a part of it. That does make sense."

He stood and made a slow circle of the gravestones. Beside each, he paused, panning around the image on Hermione's mobile until he found the matching symbol.

She followed on unsteady legs, dreading the realization that was dawning with each grave they passed, with each symbol they matched.

"Eleven," he said quietly. "There are eleven graves here."

Frowning as she thought that over, Hermione absently raked her fingers across the mark—now no more than faint white scratches—on her upper arm. "Eleven. Why does that number seem familiar?"

"The suicides of Riddle's classmates," he said in explanation, his voice hollow.

A chill curled in the pit of her stomach and she forced away the sensation of a shiver dancing along her spine as she met his gaze. "You don't think there's some connection, do you?"

He shrugged, pretending he didn't feel a need to ease her nerves. "On the surface it would seem, but there's two symbols missing. The one on your arm and another; there are thirteen symbols on the walls, in different patterns. That's why we thought they were a language, but it's the same thirteen again and again. So we're really looking at thirteen for whatever _this,"_ he made a vague circle with his free hand, indicating the cemetery and decrepit church, "is."

"But, if Riddle was number one, than that makes it twelve."

Draco frowned, scowling at the images on the phone's screen. "Twelve, sure, but still not thirteen."

"Well, true, but—" Something moved in the distance, behind Malfoy's head, catching her attention immediately.

She darted across the small cemetery, missing his bewildered expression.

"Who dashes off in mid-sentence? Honestly, who raised you?" he asked in a grumble as he turned and trudged after her.

Hermione came to a halt beside one of the only sections of stone fence still standing. "There was something here."

"Remember that sleep deprivation thing we've been dealing with recently?"

She ignored his snarky tone as she looked around, trying to remember exactly what she'd seen. "No, I saw . . . ." She shrugged, uttering a hopeless groan. "Something."

Rolling his eyes, he, too, looked past the fence, but rather than outward, as she was, his gaze passed over the ground. The thick, overgrown grass, the patchy bits of dry soil peeking out here and there, the pile of jagged, grey stones . . . .

_Wait . . . . _He climbed over the fence and made a beeline for the pile, kneeling beside it.

"Is that what I think it is?" She asked, beside him before he even realized she'd followed.

He picked through the stones; some large enough that piecing them back into their original form might be simple. She dropped to her knees beside him and helped him reconstruct the stone as much as was possible.

"Number twelve," he said in a murmur, his voice barely audible as they stared at the first of the two _missing_ symbols.

She was silent and he looked up at her. The color had drained from her face as she watched the symbol with wide eyes, as though she expected it to jump to life and bite her.

Against his better judgment, he reached out and placed a hand over hers. Her gaze sprang to his.

"It's still _not_ thirteen."

"Are you sure?" She was afraid; she could hear it in her tone, and she hated to hear herself this way. So small and trembling . . . _helpless_. The feeling appalled her. "Maybe thirteen just isn't _here_. Do you remember how many were there in the dream?"

He scowled, his eyes rolling skyward. "No. Look, we don't even know what these are doing here. We have no idea what's going on."

She didn't understand. She was the one with the mark on her arm—the mark that mysteriously wasn't here among the others. She was connected to this, somehow, as was he, since that entity saying _his_ name was what led them into all this.

Yet he seemed indifferent to it all, and that confused her. "And being so clueless doesn't terrify you?"

"Of course it does!" He shouted, surprising them both.

She recoiled as though he'd struck her. "We should probably go," she said, standing and dusting off her jeans.

His teeth sank deep into his bottom lip as he shook his head. "Granger."

She paused, but didn't turn back to face him.

"Your mobile." He moved toward her and slipped the device into her hand. "I put my number in there. You know we . . . still have research to do. And we're . . . stuck with each other a while longer, so . . . ."

"Yeah, sure, of course," she said a bit numbly. "Makes sense," she added, offering him a nod before hurriedly walking away.

He let out a sigh, hanging his head. That had come dangerously close to being an emotional moment; they were going to have to watch things like that.

Draco kicked the broken gravestone with toe of his boot, forcing some of the loose, jagged bits at the bottom more tightly together. What looked like a mish-mash of scratches suddenly came together as intelligible letters.

"Hello," he whispered, kneeling once more as he brushed the tips of his fingers over the thinly etched lines, surprised that age hadn't worn them away entirely.

"Voldemort." He breathed the name, disliking the way the very sound of it sent a chill up his spine. "Just who were _you_?"

* * *

_She pressed her mouth against his shoulder, stifling an ecstatic squeal as he thrust his hips, driving himself deep inside her again._

_Pulling away enough to look into her eyes, he feigned a disappointed frown. "Be quiet."_

_"I am sorry," she said, pouting._

_"You are not."_

_"Fine, I lied." She shrugged, enjoying that the lift of her shoulders brought his gaze to her breasts. "I like making those noises. They feel sinful."_

_"They _are_ sinful." He leaned close, nibbling on her lips a moment before continuing. "Which is why you cannot make them, someone might hear. I have a solution. Turn over."_

_She offered him a surprisingly—and completely false—shy smile as she moved back so that his length slid out of her, entirely. Sweeping their vestments aside, she rolled onto her elbows and knees on the meager bedding._

_"That is better," he murmured as he rose up behind her and grasped her hips. "Muffle your voice against the blanket and you can make _all_ the sinful noises you wish."_

_She did as instructed, pressing her lips into the fabric as she felt him position himself, felt the tip of him push inside her._

_The door of his cell burst open before either of them could react. Both froze, feeling their Lord's presence the moment He set foot in the small room. His rich brown eyes flicked over them, registering everything—their naked state, his hardened length, the slick, pink skin and damp, dark curls between her legs._

_They sprang apart, each grabbing at things with which to cover themselves as they looked fearfully back at Him. Seeming to take their dread into account, His broad shoulders drooped and He turned, closing the door._

_"You have disappointed me," their Lord said softly as He took a step toward them._

_She instantly shrank behind her partner, pressing a trembling hand to his shoulder blade._

_In an attempt to ease her fright, He sat beside them and reached out, catching a lock of her dark hair and coiling it around His finger. "But I am not angry."_

_As soon as those words fell from His lips, the tension drained out of the pair._

_"However, you cannot do this again. I have plans for you." Their lord's gaze leaped from hers to his, and back. "Both of you. To expend such precious energy outside of ritual is wasteful. I trust I am understood."_

_"Yes, my Lord," they murmured in unison._

_He leaned in, pressing His lips to their foreheads in turn and then left them to dress._

_She bit her lip, puzzling over His reaction as she pulled on her habit. He did not seem concerned that someone else, someone from the _outside_, might have overheard them when once that was the first concern He would express._

_Now, all their Lord seemed to care for was their nocturnal rites. There was a change in Him, a _disquieting_ change, she thought, forcing a small gulp down her throat as she wondered if any of the others had noticed, as well._

* * *

Hermione blinked sleepily, fumbling for the mobile buzzing beside her pillow. "What the bloody hell?" she mumbled, seeing Malfoy's name staring back at her from the screen.

"I just had another of those damned dreams," Draco's hushed whisper was nothing more than a hurried tumble of words.

Instantly wide awake, she hugged herself tightly, her gaze skittering about the darkened room as she whispered back. "So did I. What happened in yours?"

There was a long, strained silence on the other end of the line and she couldn't help ducking beneath her quilt. It simply felt as though there were . . ._ things. _Things dark and gnarled and twisted in the corners of the room, watching her, listening to her. Hanging on the very sound of her breath.

"I was . . . having sex with the girl who got the symbol cut into her arm in the first dream, but I think this was _before_ that."

A shocked, stuttering breath escaped her.

He heard her startled intake of air, responding automatically. "Dammit, Granger."

"Um, He . . . I keep thinking of him with a capital H—like he was somehow more significant than the rest of us—walked in, interrupting—"

"And said he was disappointed. We were wasting energy . . . ." His words were slow now, as though he wanted her to stop him, to tell him something different.

"Energy best saved for our _rituals."_ Hermione's voice was tiny and empty as she went on, uncertain what it meant that they'd both had the same dream, but from opposite perspectives. "And there was something strange about him. I think I was a little afraid of him because of it."

"I wondered if anyone else noticed; that maybe I was imagining the change in him."

"Oh, damn. I wondered the _exact_ same thing." She closed her eyes, holding the mobile tightly to her cheek.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice assured her that in the morning—when daylight streaked through her windows, and she could see her surroundings as _thing_-free, and safe—she'd find this all quite amusing. Here she was, Hermione Granger, snuggled up under her blankets—circumstance notwithstanding—as she shared a hushed, late-night conversation with Draco Malfoy.

"The girl . . . when she got dressed, she was wearing . . . ." Malfoy's words trailed off, but she didn't want him to continue, didn't want him to give form to the realizations that were taking shape in her own mind. "God, Granger, whoever these people were—whatever they were doing out there—they weren't just_ anyone_."

"The priests and nuns," she said, her whisper barely audible.

His tone became thick as he tried to speak around his own disbelief, as he confirmed what she'd witnessed. "Exactly. They were the _clergy_ of that church."


	12. Connections Tangled

**Chapter Twelve**

Connections Tangled

A humorless smirk twisted Snape's lips. His dark eyes lifted from the assignment on his desk to fix upon Hermione and then Draco, before drop back to the pages in front of him, once more.

After another tense, painfully long moment, he finally said, "You realize this is Thursday afternoon; the assignment is not due . . . until Monday."

"Well, technically, professor," Draco started, raising a finger, "that _is _just a deadline, which means we're free to turn the paper in sooner if we finish before that day."

Hermione cringed as she watched Snape's eyelids drift downward while he inhaled deeply—and rather noisily—through his nostrils. _Oh, there is _no_ way he's not going to fail us on assignment, _she thought miserably.

"I _am_ aware of that, Mr. Malfoy," he explained as he opened his eyes, his voice tight. "I was attempting to afford you both a bit more time. I want your certainty that you are satisfied with the conclusion you've drawn."

* * *

_"Psychotic break?" Malfoy read aloud from the screen, his brows shooting upward. "Are you certain? I'm not sure there's evidence to suggest that."_

_Hermione gave an exhausted roll of her eyes. This was hardly how she'd wanted to spend lunch, but then she didn't have much appetite lately, anyway. "Yes, but that's my entire point. The evidence doesn't _suggest _anything. The very fact that he went from a man who—by all accounts—was polite, well-spoken, upstanding and mild-mannered to a cannibalistic, blood-drinking serial killer seemingly overnight could _only_ indicate a break. I don't know how else to explain such a dramatic shift, do you?"_

_He scowled as he gave her question a moment's thought. "No."_

_Hell, this was all so simple and obvious to her now that she felt certain they might have had the assignment completed days ago. That was, of course, if it hadn't been for all their sidetracking over hidden rooms, mysterious symbols, and creepy, ritualistic sex-dreams. Then there were those first few study sessions during which they'd simply refused to cooperate with each other, and their completely inexplicable moments of kissing and groping in the dead of night._

_Then again, perhaps it_ should_ be a surprise that they'd gotten any work done, at all._

_Hermione shook her head, focusing on the moment at hand. "Something happened, he . . . snapped—"_

_Malfoy shot her a look, his brow furrowing._

_"For lack of a better term," she said with a long sigh. Honestly, her brain was so fogged from losing sleep he should count himself lucky that she could verbally communicate her thoughts, at all. "Anyway, he kills them to vent some anxiety, but maybe in his broken mind, he imagines that because they're _good _people, by consuming something of them, he absorbs that goodness. Sinning and then absolving that sin."_

_Draco crinkled the bridge of his nose in distaste. "Like a twisted version of Penance, or Holy Communion?"_

_She shrugged. "Something like that."_

_Frowning, he leaned his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples with the pads of his thumbs. "I suppose that works. And I don't think staring at the same _lack _of information for another three and a half days is going to provide us any different answers."_

_She nodded, typing out their agreed upon assessment. He made a thoughtful sound behind her, she just barely heard it over the sound of rapid keyboard clicks._

_"What?" She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. His fingers were hardly broken, yet somehow she'd known _she _would be the one stuck playing secretary._

_"I was just wondering what Riddle's anxieties might have been," he said, his voice low._

_Hermione paused, for some reason, the very question raised goose bumps along her arms. "Doesn't matter," she murmured forcing her fingers back to work. "His_ actual _thinking can't be assessed. If Snape wants something more specific, he can tell us that himself."_

_"It might affect our grade."_

_Refraining from slamming her palm against the computer table, she turned in her seat to meet his gaze with narrowed eyes. "I _don't _care. I can't believe I just said _I_ don't care about a grade, but it's true. Okay? I don't care, because I don't _want _to think on Riddle's deep, inner-most thoughts any more than is strictly necessary, do _you_?"_

_"Not particularly." Frowning darkly, he sat back, affecting that peculiar regal-slouch of his._

_She silently held his gaze, her expression icy._

_"Dammit, Granger," he grumbled as he squared his jaw. "I was only curious."_

_She gave him a once-over, his wording momentarily distracting her from her agitation. "Your curiosity has a terrible habit of getting us into troubling situations."_

_He offered a quick, upward flick of one eyebrow. "Doesn't it just?"_

_Forcing herself to scowl, she pointed an angry finger at him. "Not now."_

_That smug, infuriating smirk curved his lips. "Clearly not _now_, Granger. Honestly, we're in the library in the middle of the day," he whispered. "Anyone could stumble in on us_now_. Perhaps sometime later, though—"_

_"Not discussing this here."_

_"In the dark—"_

_"Will you be quiet?"_

_"Some place where no one will see—"_

_"Draco Malfoy," she hissed, her tone lethal._

_"Hermione Granger," he responded, mimicking her scathing look. "See, you aren't the only one who can do it."_

_Refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her giggle at his asinine behavior, she turned back to her typing. "Prat."_

* * *

Draco arched a brow. "Is there something wrong?"

Her gaze darted from her research partner to their professor before she settled on staring at a spot of light reflecting off the lip of Snape's desk. In an odd way, she admired Malfoy's ability to keep from cowering under the man's withering glare.

Pointedly clearing his throat, Snape lifted the folder and flipped to the last page, rereading a few lines. Setting it back down, he inhaled deeply and looked at them again. "I suppose not. You both . . . may go."

After a few long, silent minutes of trailing behind Draco down the corridor, Hermione halted. She'd been turning their discussion with Snape over and over in her mind and her wrung-out brain finally kicked into gear.

"Malfoy," she said softly, her gaze on the gleaming tile floor.

"Granger," he responded, halting, as well, but remained facing ahead of them.

"Did that all seem a bit . . . ?"

"Odd?"

She nodded, despite the awareness that he couldn't see the gesture. "Didn't it feel as though he expected a different answer about Riddle?"

"Not quite," he said, his voice quiet, before pivoting to face her. "Maybe more like he _hoped_ for a different answer."

"Why should he _actually _care about Riddle's motive?" She frowned thoughtfully, trying to connect the dots even as she asked the question. "Wait, how old is Snape?"

What little color Malfoy's face normally held drained away as his jaw dropped. "You think he might've been one of Riddle's classmates?"

"I think it's possible. Maybe he's just still looking for an answer to solve some psychological puzzle he's been unable to put together himself. I mean . . . ." She took a step closer and dropped her voice to a whisper, "If he knew Riddle and, despite Snape's intellect and his ability to evaluate people, he was just as surprised as everyone else by the murders? He may be looking for someone to pick up on signs that _he_ missed. What do you think?"

"I think it's suddenly become much more unsettling that he assigned a project on Riddle just before a body fitting the pattern of Riddle's kills turns up."

Hermione bit her bottom lip hard as she wound her arms around herself, a chill crawling across her skin. "No, he can't be connected to that."

Glancing about quickly, Draco stepped toward her, closing the distance so that he could lower his voice further, still, without her missing any of his words. "But what if he is? I mean, we have no way of knowing what's connected and what isn't with everything that's gone on these last two weeks, but who was the_ only_ other person in the basement that first night—that night that seems to have started _everything_?"

Just like that, Snape's droning voice echoed in the back of her skull, _Mr. Malfoy, are you down here?_

"I was the only student in Slytherin Hall that night, and he knew it. What if he was trying to lure me out of the basement—?"

"So he could get to that door in the storage room?"

He scowled darkly, his mouth pulling into a tight, grim line. "Who else can come and go from Slytherin Hall at all hours without raising any eyebrows?"

"But . . . ." She nervously licked suddenly parched lips as she thought aloud, "If he's connected to Riddle _and_ he's the one accessing that room?"

"So Riddle carved those symbols on the walls, or Snape did, to make a link between Riddle and those graves?"

"Either way, doesn't that mean Riddle _was_ somehow connected to whatever went on in that church so long ago?" Hermione swallowed painfully around the fear lodged in her throat. "Snape is, first and foremost, a man of his field. What . . . what if he thinks recreating one of the crimes might give him insight on Riddle?"

"We're getting carried away," Draco said, his tone mildly reasonable. "Before we make any more suppositions, we should start at the beginning. Check if they _were, _in fact, classmates and work from there. Which means . . . ."

She hung her head. "Back to the library." Never in her life had Hermione imagined she'd dread the notion of going to the library.

* * *

Malfoy dropped his head into his hands. "Okay, okay. We _still_ don't know it's connected at all."

She clicked to close the page and sat back, chewing her lip. "Maybe we should just let this drop. Maybe that's what we should have done from the start, ignored it and walked away."

His eyes drifted closed as he responded in a dull, irritated tone, "And we would have, if weird little signs didn't pop up every time we _mention_ leaving this be."

"You're right."

"I—"

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. "Fine, we keep looking, but where do we go now? I mean, it's not like we can tell anyone."

"We could, it just wouldn't make much sense. 'Hello? Yes, our professor is creepy and may, or may not, be obsessing over Tom Riddle. Oh, and we found this disturbing little room that he may, or may not, be using for some nefarious purpose. _Clearly_ he's the Riddle copycat, go arrest him.'" He let his head fall back as he uttered a frustrated groan. "We don't even _know_ what we know."

Frowning, she pressed a hand against the back of his skull, setting his head straight. "Look maybe there's a simple answer for what to do next."

Darting his gaze around quickly to ensure no one was around to see the action, he turned his face against her hand, nipping at her palm.

She snatched her hand back and glared at him.

"What would this _simple answer_ be?"

"You said yourself that whenever we try to leave this whole mess alone, something pops up to drag us back to it, right?"

"I see. What you're thinking is if we don't do anything, what to do next will find _us_."

"Makes as much sense as anything else that's happened."

"I suppose that's . . . ." A single word drifted across Draco's mind then. Turning back toward the computer, he opened a search engine and typed.

Hermione leaned against his side, reading over his shoulder. "Voldemort? What is that?"

He clicked the search button. "I don't know why, but I completely forgot about it 'til just now. I found this scratched into the broken headstone."

She frowned. "There's only one hit?"

"Probably bullshit," he said, his tone lifeless. He should have known it would be a dead end.

Shooing his hand away from the mouse, Hermione clicked on the link herself. The scanned image of an old photocopied article opened before them.

"It looks like a piece on old urban legends."

"I believe the term for 'old urban legend' is _folk tale_, Granger."

She refrained from rolling her eyes. "Okay, shut up. The name Voldemort appears only once throughout history as a . . . ." Hermione let go of the mouse and fell back in her chair, her unblinking gaze dropping into her lap.

Alarmed by her reaction, Draco looked from her ashen face to the screen. "As a . . . ." His voice took on a hollow tone. "As a priest burned at the stake for witchcraft. Voldemort was branded a heretic and condemned for crimes against God and the church."

"That's why his grave was _outside_ the cemetery, away from the others."

They exchanged a glance before he returned to reading. "The little-heard story goes that a young woman, claiming to have been a nun, turned up on the doorstep of a revered town elder name Albus Dumbledore. She claimed that Voldemort led the clergy of the church into . . . ." He forced a gulp down his throat. "Into sinful congress with unholy spirits. When the elder refused to believe her, she offered evidence of abuse at Voldemort's hands. Possible occult symbols had been carved into her arms, one still fresh, the others in various states of healing. She said he had—" Draco's words dropped off sharply.

Hermione didn't want to look at the screen, didn't want to read it for herself. Instead she met Malfoy's gaze.

"He sacrificed the others." He leaned closer, whispering, "All _eleven_ of them."

"Eleven," she echoed in a hollow voice. "So those graves definitely _are_ the clergy. _Plus_ Voldemort makes twelve, and the girl, his . . . his _bride_, she makes—"

"Thirteen." He nodded, grey eyes tracing over her sleeve-covered upper arm, over where that horrible mark had only just faded away.

In a snap decision, he turned back toward the computer and clicked _Print._

"Why are you doing that?"

"I want a physical copy of this on hand," he explained, reaching over to retrieve the page the moment it finished printing. "Out of everything we_ think_ we know, we have nothing to hold onto. Now we do."

"So wait," she murmured, thoughtlessly resting a hand over his forearm as her eyes drifted closed. "Eleven, plus Voldemort at the church. Riddle, _plus_ eleven of his classmates . . . ."

* * *

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Lavender breathed out in a hysterical whisper.

Why did she have to stand at _just_ this angle? Why did she have to select_ just_ this book?

As she'd slid the thick text from the shelf, a head of perfect platinum hair came into view at the far side of the library. Glancing about the nearly empty place, she'd then leaned her face toward the bookcase to get a better look.

There they were, Hermione and Malfoy, researching. Or, at least, that was how it appeared. But then Hermione became visibly upset. And he said something to her, whatever his words were, his accompanying expression was serious . . . though perhaps _somber_ was a more fitting term.

And she touched his arm! She put her hand on his arm and _left _it there. Like that was a normal thing for them!

That was when Lavender burst out in panicked whispering.

"Oh my God, what?"

Harry's voice made her jump and she clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking. Hurriedly stuffing the book back into place with her free hand, she spun on a heel to face him.

"You scared me!"

His eyebrows disappeared into his bangs. "I scared you? You're the one talking to a book shelf."

"I just realized I . . . forgot to eat lunch. Let's go grab a bite. Are you hungry? Of course you are! You're a boy, you're always hungry." Her words were running together as she rushed forward and hooked her arm through Harry's, turning him toward the exit. "C'mon let's go find Ron, he's always hungry, too."

"Did you hit your head or something?" he asked in a mystified tone as he let her lead him from the library.

As she giggled airily and chatted about how she couldn't _believe_ he didn't know that this was how she got when she missed a meal, a little voice in the back of her mind puzzled over what she'd just done. Harry was right here, and there was his best friend, being touchy-feely with his enemy, the perfect opportunity and yet . . . .

And yet, Lavender couldn't bring herself to let him see that.

_Good God, what's wrong with me?_ She wondered if the Grinch in that Christmas story had felt this confused in the moment that his heart had grown three sizes.

* * *

"But one of Voldemort's people got away. He killed eleven people, and then was murdered, himself," Malfoy said, scrambling for any proof that would either connect _or_ separate the two events; he wasn't certain he cared which, anymore, as long as they found answers. "Riddle is killed, and _then_ there are eleven suicides. The numbers are the same, but not the circumstances. Come to think of it, the numbers _aren't_ the same, either."

"Unless there _was_ a number thirteen with Riddle who, like Voldemort's bride, simply didn't die with the others."

"I think the chances of finding Riddle's number thirteen, if there _is_ one, are slim unless we're able to talk to their ghosts." He offered a humorless smile. "And I'm not about to get a Ouija board."

She sat up a little straighter in her seat, her hand finally—why had neither noticed until now that she was still touching him—slid away from his arm. "Not a Ouija board, those things never work the way you need them to, anyway. But . . . have you ever heard of a ghost box?"

Draco's brows shot up his forehead as he gave her a questioning look


	13. The Ghost Box

**Chapter Thirteen**

The Ghost Box

Oh, yes, this one is perfect_, the servant thought gleefully as he watched her move across the darkened grounds._

_It had grown stronger. He would grow stronger, still, from _this_ one's sacrifice. Surely, It would recognize the significance of such an offering._

_Recognize that, and be _pleased.

Yes_, he thought, a wicked grin curving his lips as he slid from his hiding place and crept after her on silent footsteps. He could smell her blood, could hear the drum of her pulse._

_This one _fit_._

_Everything would fall into place, now, he assured himself. He drifted closer, still; so close he could detect the sweet, floral fragrance of her hair._

* * *

"And this is supposed to do what, again?" Malfoy asked, his face scrunched as he examined the small, square-ish radio. He hadn't really been listening the first time, he was far too busy focusing his tired brain on _not _watching her lips move while she talked.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione plucked the box from his hands—strangely uncertain if she'd accidentally brushed her fingers over his, or done it on purpose—and set it on the ground between them. "_This _continuously scans frequencies. Doing so allows the box to create white noise and audio remnants from various broadcast stations, which, according to theory, entities can manipulate in order to form words or sentences."

"Right, sure," he grumbled, leaning back against the crumbling wall of the church. "Sounds like rubbish."

She frowned at him, the darkness around them making the downward turn of her mouth more severe. "Sure, with everything we've been through so far, this would be so difficult to believe? And anyway, it doesn't hurt to try. If the responses are gibberish, or have nothing to do with the questions we ask, then we . . . ." Offering a hopeless shrug, she waved a hand. "We scrap this idea and wait for the next one, I suppose."

He stretched, folding his arms behind his head as he watched her fiddle with the box before finally switching it on. Honestly, earlier in the library when she'd suggested meeting behind the church later that same night—which was, admittedly, the moment he stopped listening—he'd hoped she had a slightly different purpose in mind.

Oh. Well. They'd probably get to _that _eventually, anyway.

"Where did you get that thing so fast?"

She kept her gaze on the radio as she spoke. "My ex-boyfriend Cormac is into this sort of stuff. So I asked him if I could borrow it for an assignment."

Draco let his eyelids drift down, ignoring the irritation—slight, _slight _irritation—that rippled through him as he smirked. "Had to exchange a _favor,_ did you?"

The radio sputtered and hissed, but didn't seem to do much more than give off static-like clicks.

Hermione looked up at him, eyebrows lifting as she mirrored his expression. "Is that jealousy I hear, Malfoy?"

His eyes opened at her mocking tone, meeting her gaze. Fine, he supposed he should have expected that. "Not on your life, Granger," he replied in a murmur; two could play the _I Remember What Y_ou S_aid _game.

_Yes . . . jealous._

They each gave a start, their attention dropping to the box. It groaned and spewed fuzzy crackling sounds.

"Did . . . ." Hermione drew a breath and then exhaled slowly, goose bumps prickling across her skin. "Did _you _just say jealous?"

_Yes._

She looked to Malfoy once more—whose eyes darted from her, to the box, and back as his arms dropped to his sides—before she crawled around the noisy device and sat closer him. The decision went entirely against her own better judgment, but she didn't like the feeling of being _so s_eparate, of being so physically alone, as a wheezing voice rattled through the air.

"You mean _you're _jealous?"

_Yes . . . I . . . jealous._

"Jealous of what?" As soon as the words fell from her lips, she could feel Draco's eyes boring into the side of her head. "Somebody has to ask," she whispered out the corner of her mouth.

_Flesh, breath . . . so jealous_.

"Yes, 'cause that's not creepy at all," he said, his voice barely audible, but his low pitch didn't stop her from slapping him on the thigh to hush him up.

"All right. I'm terribly sorry you're . . . no longer, um, fleshy and breathing?" She cringed, realizing how lame and awkward she sounded, but she had no idea what else to say to such an unsettling statement. "But we need to ask you some questions, if we may?"

_You may . . . girl._

"And it knows you're a girl." His disbelief had turned to unease in a blink, and that unease was mounting the longer they sat listening to the buzzing crackle of white noise between hissed words. "Fan_tastic_."

"I wasn't aware we had reason to think it _couldn't_ see us," she whispered.

He leaned closer, his chin over her shoulder as he said in her ear, "That's not what I meant. What if it doesn't mean jealous in the context you think? If it sees us now, it might've seen us the other night, too." To emphasize the point he was trying to make, Draco reached a hand beneath her hair, stroking a fingertip down the back of her neck. He tipped his face down so that his breathe washed over the side of her throat as he spoke. "Jealous of flesh and breath."

Hermione's eyelids fluttered in a series of rapid blinks as she repressed a tremble. This was hardly the time for him to behave this way—and certainly not the time for her to react to such behavior—but she understood his meaning.

"Let's just move on and not think about that," she whispered, pretending she wasn't suddenly hyper-aware of his closeness.

He only nodded in response.

Again she drew a deep breath, giving her head a small shake and returning to her conversation with the box. "Do you know the name Tom Riddle?"

There was a long slow hiss and she couldn't help shrinking back against Draco.

_Yes_.

Closing her eyes, she forced a small gulp down her throat and shook her head once more. "Do you know of his crimes?"

_Blood . . . so much blood._

She froze, unable to think anymore. The most disturbing image of Tom Riddle soaking in a tub of blood, like some male Elizabeth Bathory, flashed through her mind.

When she remained silent, Draco sighed heavily, not really wanting to take over talking to this . . . entity, or whatever. "Do you know the name Voldemort?"

The box emitted a strange, sobbing wail. Hermione pulled away further, still. Any more of this and she'd end up in Draco's lap, and she wasn't even certain she cared.

"I—I think we upset it."

He rolled his eyes, his customary scowl slipping into place. He wanted this over with. Now. "Clearly you know of him."

_Y—yes, yes, yesss. _The response was so low they barely heard it over the static.

"Is there a connection between Riddle and Voldemort?"

The voice let out another horrible, keening whine and she couldn't help thinking that it seemed the entity was in pain.

He must've detected that same note, she realized as he pressed in a harsh whisper, "Just answer that and we'll leave you be!"

Again, it whined miserably, but shorter and softer, this time—sound of someone giving up. _Blood of the twelve._

"Blood of the twelve," Draco echoed, turning his head briefly to share a quick, unsettled glance with Hermione. "What does that mean?"

It made an odd, hollow snarling noise, like a wild animal backed into a corner. _Look to the blood of the twelve._

The box shot forward, crashing against the wall beside them and he jumped, pushing her behind him.

She peered over his shoulder at the device. A tremor ran through her as she pressed her palms against his back, looking for something—anything—solid and still to steady her.

"We'd better go," he murmured, chancing a look around as he scooped up the box.

Nodding weakly, she waited until he rose. Her hands slipped from him as he moved, and she braced her back against the wall and pulled her feet under her, then slowly pushed up to stand. She needed the support, and she didn't imagine Draco Malfoy would help her up.

She supposed they should find it a small relief that all the noise that stupid thing made hadn't alerted Filch and Hagrid. A shuffling sound drew her attention and she felt her body sag.

"What is that?"

In front of her, Draco went completely still, listening. "I'm not sure, but . . . I think it's coming from _inside_ the church."

Hermione gripped her fingers into the back of his shirt, her voice tiny as it tumbled out from between her lips. "Please, let's not look."

His shoulders slumped as he looked back at her.

Two weeks ago, she'd believed herself a brave person. Now, though, she understood she was acting like a coward. She was absolutely terrified to peek in at what might be moving around inside that church, and she didn't care who knew it.

"I can't. It's been too much for one night. Please."

Malfoy frowned, as he turned on a heel to face her, pressing the radio into her hands. "I'm just going to look through the window, that's all."

Realizing that she wasn't going to change his mind, she nodded, determinedly dropping her gaze to the box. Oh, and this thing _looked_ like it had smacked into a wall. She could worry later about what to tell Cormac. Given his interest in the paranormal, maybe she could simply tell him a ghost did it, and hope he didn't think she was mocking him.

Though she didn't want to, she turned to watch Draco as he neared the window. The shuffling came again and she steeled herself against the urge to follow him, to peer through the cracks in the stained glass, as well. She was going to stick to her cowardice, tonight.

He bent toward the window, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make out the shapes inside. "I don't see anything moving," he whispered, but an idea struck as his gaze darted about the strange, darkened structure.

Straightening up, he turned back to face her, his mouth tugged to one side in an odd half-frown as he studied her expression. "I have a thought," he began, purposely leaving off the rest of the statement.

Widened chestnut eyes moved from him to the window behind him, and back. "You can't be serious. I'm not going in there!"

"Not now," he said in a hissing breath, squinting in a way that made her wonder if he was questioning her intelligence. "But if the priest leading the congregation here was burned for witchcraft, that's probably the _last_ time the place was used."

She shrugged, interrupting thoughtlessly, "That's probably also why no one knows Voldemort's story—no one in their right mind would have bought the land it's on."

"You're right."

"I—"

"_Anyway_." He rushed on, knowingly cutting her off, but mildly relieved to see her behaving more like herself, again. "If they're the last clergy to have served the church, there might still be things of theirs inside."

"Damn, you're right."

He smirked. "I—"

"Do we really need to keep doing that?" Hermione tried to keep her tone even; to not let slip that he'd almost gotten a laugh out of her.

Turning away, he started walking, "Oh, c'mon, Granger. It's like our _thing_."

With a heavy sigh, she looked over the box again as she fell into step beside him. "So _we_ have a thing, Malfoy?"

Draco gave that a moment's thought as he shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Well, whatever it is, you've got to admit we certainly do always have an interesting time together."

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. "Interesting is one way to describe it."

"What do you think it means?"

For a frightening moment, she thought he was asking for a clearer definition of what _their_ _thing_ was.

"Look to the blood of the twelve," he said quietly, the tone of his voice making the cryptic sentence no less unsettling than the first time they'd heard it.

"Oh, well, I'm not sure." Again her mind mocked her with images of Riddle bathing in rich, crimson liquid, of firelight dancing against the night sky as Voldemort cut symbols into her arms. "The blood of Riddle's victims . . . ."

Her strange, hollow whisper sent a chill tickling up his spine and he turned to see she'd halted. "Granger?"

"I'm sorry." She shook her head, a dreadful numbness creeping through her limbs. "I was just thinking that we don't know anything about _how_ Voldemort sacrificed his victims."

His gaze wandered the campus grounds beyond her as he forced himself to speak. "You think Riddle was copying Voldemort?"

A pained expression flitted across her face as her lids drifted closed. "I think what we don't know about all this still outweighs what we _do _know. Greatly."

"But Riddle only had ten _actual_ victims, the suicides afterward can't count in this context."

He was right, but she wasn't about to say it—this wasn't the time for their _thing_—instead, she pointed out something they'd not considered. "But only because Lily Evans killed him. We don't know how many more victims Riddle would have claimed."

Draco groaned, wiping a hand over his face. "I can't believe either of us can still think on this level after two weeks of sleeping an hour a night."

"Have you been eating?"

"I . . . ." His shoulders drooped. "You know, I don't remember the last time I ate."

"Same for me," she murmured, suddenly more troubled by the thought. "You realize that we're . . . . It's like we're fasting without meaning to. Like some people do when they're preparing for deep meditation, or to go into a trance-state."

"Sorry, Granger, this time I don't follow," he said, arching a brow at her.

"Don't you think it's weird that the night in the storeroom, we heard a voice; that was _all_. Fine, the incident was spooky, and nerve-wracking, but not _really_ traumatic. It's an experience we should've overcome within a few days—an experience I think we _did _overcome within a few days. Yet now, we can't sleep longer than two hours a night, no matter how tired we are, and we've stopped eating?"

His expression became icy as his gaze locked on hers. "You think something's doing this to us?"

"How else do you explain that we're both going through the same thing?" She couldn't believe what she was saying, and if not for everything they'd been through, she might not consider it a realistic possibility, at all. "What if something wants us closer to that meditative, trance-like state?"

He offered her a mystified scowl. "For what?"

"Like I'd know?" She hadn't meant to raise her voice, hadn't meant to stamp her foot, but she'd just done both.

His face hardened at her tone.

Sighing, Hermione hung her head. "Look, I don't have any more idea than you do, but maybe the only reason we've gotten mixed up in this Voldemort-Riddle thing is because of the condition we're in. We've been functioning in a state of hyper-awareness for a while now, and how many things would we _not_ have noticed, how many things _wouldn't_have occurred to us, had we been functioning normally?"

He groaned, clasping his hands behind his neck. "I suppose that makes sense . . . in a completely bizarre 'if I wasn't going through it, I'd think you were mad' sort of way."

A giggle burst out of her. "That's exactly my point, though."

"All right, but I swear, I cannot discuss this anymore, at least not right now." He yawned, letting his arms drop. "Look, we have clear things we need to do; check out the church, look into the deaths—suicides included—try to find the link, but not _now. _We may not be sleeping much, but we still need what little we can get."

Nodding, she turned and started walking again. There was only so long they could stand about in the middle of the quad.

"This really isn't how I'd pictured this night ending," he said, grumbling.

"Oh?" She realized only after she spoke what he meant. "How did you picture it ending?"

His fingers slid around the back of her neck, turning her face toward him and brought his mouth down on hers. He parted her lips with his tongue, and darted inside.

She allowed him only a moment, only a quick caress of her tongue over his, only the briefest graze of her teeth across his bottom lip, before she pulled away.

"Are you mad?" she whispered breathlessly, pointedly darting her gaze toward Slytherin Hall and then toward Gryffindor. "What if someone sees?"

He leaned just a bit closer, his lips moving against hers as he whispered back, "Terrifying, isn't it?"

And just like that, he pulled away entirely and turned on a heel, walking off toward Slytherin Hall.

Hermione puffed out her cheeks, letting a deep breath rattle out as she watched him go. Wasn't this the same spot where he'd left her all flustered and then walked off the other night they'd been on the church grounds, too?

She was really developing some terrible habits when it came to Draco Malfoy.

* * *

There was some commotion going on in the Gryffindor Hall common area when Hermione awoke. She hadn't been aware anything was wrong until she opened the door and found students gathered on the second floor landing.

Turning her attention toward the front door, she found Dean McGonagall in deep conversation with two uniformed police officers. The proper, grey-haired woman always looked serious, yet the expression she wore this morning made her usual sternness feel like warm smiles.

"What's going on?" Hermione whispered as she sidled in between Harry and Parvati.

Harry's green eyes were huge, huge and ringed with dark circles barely concealed by his glasses as he met her gaze. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side.

She thought it an odd gesture until he spoke—until he gave her reason to understand why he thought she'd need support.

"It's Lavender. She's gone missing."


	14. Emotional Turns

**Chapter Fourteen**

Emotional Turns

"I heard they already called her parents, but it sounded like Mr. and Mrs. Brown haven't seen her or heard from her. Her mobile and ID and all that were still in her room," Hermione said, her words barely above a mumble as she picked at the crust of her sandwich.

And to think, after skipping breakfast, she'd planned to force down some lunch this afternoon. Her mind knew she couldn't go on like this, but her stomach roiled at the very notion of food entering her body until they got at least some scrap of solid information regarding Lavender.

News of a student's disappearance had spread quickly through the small campus, casting a somber hue over the university's entire population. Even Mother Nature seemed aware of the mood, Hermione thought, turning her head to watch drops of rain splash down outside the shop window.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Did anyone else notice that she was behaving sort of strange yesterday?"

"Um, I don't know how else to say this, but isn't Lavender always sort of strange?" Neville asked as he set down his iced coffee.

"I think we all fit that description," Ron murmured.

Hermione gave a small, half-hearted laugh.

Shaking his head, Harry tried for a restatement. "No, what I mean is not like herself. Yesterday she was acting very jumpy; skittish, almost."

"She did seem a bit tense the last few days, I think," Hermione said quietly.

Despite keeping her focus on the conversation, her eyes continued to wander toward a certain blonde legacy brat a few tables away. She'd been in a fog much of the morning. In the few classes she shared with Lavender, she felt keenly aware of the girl's absence, unable to really focus on anything more than the bizarre, out-of-sync emptiness of her friend's seat. Hermione wouldn't have noticed if Draco Malfoy had strutted down the corridor naked.

Well, she probably would have snapped out of her fog for _that_, but since she didn't recall any such event, she highly doubted that had happened.

At the table where she usually sat with her friends, she most often faced the coffee shop door. Today, however, the boys had already piled in and settled by the time she'd arrived, so she'd not seen _him_ come in, only giving a brief start when he entered her line of sight and took a seat.

Every so often, his head would turn in her direction, just ever so slightly, but before actually looking at her, he'd snap his attention back to whatever his obnoxious legacy-brat friends were discussing. She wanted to think he'd sat there on purpose, knowing she could see him, yet his infuriating lack of acknowledgment made confirming that impossible.

And dear_ God_, the way Pansy kept batting her eyelashes at Draco made Hermione want to vomit.

Ron's gaze darted about before he leaned over the table a little to speak in a whisper, "Have the police talked to any of you yet?"

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione as she pretended she didn't see him slide a strip of bacon from her sandwich and onto his plate. "No," they replied in unison.

Neville shook his head as he yawned, his usual lunchtime meal of grilled chicken and chips untouched.

"Isn't that what they're supposed to do, though? Talk to the missing person's friends?"

Ron sounded agitated, Hermione observed with a frown. They were all agitated, and worried, and perhaps even scared, but he seemed particularly upset.

"I think Dean McGonagall might've asked the police to wait until after afternoon classes are over unless it's urgent, so there's as little disruption as possible."

The ginger-haired young man sat up straight, his face scrunched. "Our friend is missing, I think that requires a little disruption!"

Harry, Hermione and Neville looked around the table at one another before all three turned bewildered expressions on Ron. "We're all worried, Ron, okay? I only meant—"

"I know." He hung his head as he went on. "I know what you meant. I'm— I'm sorry. I just . . . . I feel really guilty, is all."

Hermione's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she tried to sort out his words. "Why should you feel guilty?"

"_Because_ I'm worried about her."

Harry held up a hand. "Ron, stop, that doesn't make any sense."

"Harry's right," Hermione said, offering a wan smile. "Maybe you're just tired, so you're not thinking cle—"

"It makes perfect sense!" Ron's voice raised as his eyes locked on Hermione's. "How is it okay that I'm_ s__o_ worried about her when I'm still not over you!"

Every sound in their immediate vicinity fell away.

"Smooth, Ron," Harry whispered, lifting his glass in a mock, one-sided toast.

Hermione could only cringe, positive she could feel the gazes of every patron in the shop turn to press on them. Every patron, but _one_.

Between Ron and Neville's heads, Hermione could see Draco, could see the way his face was turned down to look at the plate before him as he picked at something. Even with his attention trained away from her offering her only his profile, she could see that familiar scowl fit over his features.

She couldn't help feeling that his lack of reaction spoke volumes.

Ron looked properly abashed as he hunched his shoulders and dropped his gaze to the table. "Sorry."

Clearing her throat as the coffee shop sprang back to life around them, Hermione tried for a civil tone. "You can't be serious. _We _have been over for how long, now?"

"But that's what I mean. Maybe if I hadn't been thinking about someone else, I might have noticed if something weird was going on with her."

Hermione took a deep breath, and sat back. "Okay, I understand what you're feeling—we're all wondering if we weren't paying enough attention, if _we_ missed something important about Lavender. We all feel guilty and want to blame someone else—but _this?_ Even if there_ was _any truth to it, this was not the way to say it." To push the point that this was not a matter open for discussion, she grabbed her bag and pulled the strap over her shoulder. "And most _certainly_ not the time."

Slipping from her seat, she stormed out of the shop. She was nearly positive she _did_ feel Draco's gaze on her then, but she was afraid to turn and look back.

* * *

For a while, she did well ignoring everything around her. Unfortunately, that included her professors' lessons, as she alternately worried over Lavender and wished she could go back in time and stop Ron from making that declaration.

But then Snape's class rolled around. She hadn't even had the freedom to think about sitting in _Snape's_ presence—after the very unsettling suppositions Draco and she had made about the man—when she arrived at the door. That thought almost made having to go take her seat beside Malfoy seem a pleasant thing.

_Almost . . . ._

For a few moments, Hermione simply stared at the entrance. Unable to move, she actually _did _consider slamming her hand against something just so she wouldn't have to go in there.

Someone large bumped her aside as they walked into the room and she looked up to see the high, bulky shoulders of Goyle lumber past. Of course, he didn't say _excuse me_, or toss an apology over his shoulder. Understanding suddenly how ridiculous she was being—after all, she was going to have to deal with this eventually—Hermione squared her shoulders, plucked up her courage, and entered the class.

Draco must've been watching the door, waiting for her, she realized, as his gaze met hers for only a second before dropping to the book open before him. She pretended it didn't sting to wonder if he'd been waiting for the moment she set foot inside so that he could deliberately avoid looking at her.

She didn't care what he thought, she reminded herself, her inner-voice stern as she crossed the room and slid into her seat. Yet somehow, despite that thought, as she began fishing out her text and tablet, words began falling from her mouth, seemingly of their own accord.

"Ron's just upset about Lavender," she whispered, her gaze trained on her desk. "There's nothing to what he said."

"I don't care," he replied tonelessly, his voice exactly as low and controlled as hers.

"Really?" She couldn't help it, not when the look that had crossed his face in the shop floated before her mind's eye. "Because I saw your expression, and—"

"I said I don't _care_, Granger." His mouth pulled into a tight, angry line, his eyebrows inching upward. "We don't owe each other explanations, do we? Nothing emotional between us, right?"

"Right, right, of course not," she said quickly, recalling the terms of their arrangement.

She flicked a glance over her shoulder. There Pansy Parkinson sat, every now and again looking from up some discussion with Seamus—that was clearly boring her half-to-death—to glance longingly at Draco.

Turning her attention back to opening her text, Hermione decided to test something. "If it helps at all . . . every time I see Pansy giving you Bambi eyes, I feel like smacking her face against something."

She peeked at Draco out of the corner of her eye. Worry immediately followed as his expression remained icy.

But then, one corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from smiling. No, no, his reaction was _not_ supposed to set off the giddy sensation of butterflies in her stomach; he was right, they weren't supposed to care.

His expression cooled when Professor Snape walked in. As far as Draco was concerned, they'd not ruled out his involvement in whatever was going on. Nor had he been able to fully deny her suggestion that something was intentionally causing whatever was happening to them. Since that morning, he'd left behind two untouched plates of food which he'd had every intention of eating to attest to that.

"Miss Granger," Snape droned, reading from a paper in his hand as he moved behind his desk. "Please . . . report to the Dean's office after class."

Her gaze snapped up instantly to lock on their teacher. He paid her no mind as he dove into the lesson, dictating this page number, and that subject matter.

_They want to talk to me about_ _Lavender_, she thought dully, her stomach twisting. But then, she'd known this was likely to happen.

Her mood changed so fast, Draco thought he could sense it. Against his better judgment, he shifted over incrementally, barely noticeable to anyone else. Just enough that his thigh pressed lightly against hers.

She turned her head, but her gaze didn't follow, as though she refused to acknowledge the touch. For a moment, he thought the intent had gone unnoticed, but the set of her shoulders eased and she settled back in her seat.

He scowled as he turned his attention to Snape's lesson. Her agitated state had made him agitated . . . yes, that was it—he'd only sought to offer her a modicum of comfort because _he_ did not like agitation.

Yes, that was exactly it, he assured himself. His attempt at a soothing gesture wasn't about _her_ in the slightest.

* * *

Hermione felt impossibly small as she stared back at the severe looking man _casually _leaning against McGonagall's desk. Certainly, he was trying to appear friendly, and made the effort to put her at ease, but he was failing. God, she had never wished she was still a legally-protected minor more in her life—she'd give anything to duck behind her parents, right now.

His partner—an older, slightly rounded gentleman, named Fudge—gazed out the window, as though disinterested in her, and pleasantly observing the campus grounds.

"Miss Granger," the imposing one began—Shacklebolt, as distracted as she was, she remembered their names because they were so odd—gracing her with a light smile. "Is there anything you can tell us about your friend Lavender?"

"Anything like what?" Hermione had it on the tip of her tongue to blurt out her observation from lunch, but she wasn't going to offer them anything they didn't specifically ask of her.

He let out a sigh and she guessed she wasn't the only one who'd played semantics with them today. His own fault for not taking the IQ of the average Rowling student into account, she thought.

"Did you notice anyone paying her particular attention recently? Had she gotten into any fights, or arguments with anyone?" He pressed on as she shook her head in answer to both questions. "Did you notice any changes in her behavior?"

"Well . . . ." She glanced from him, to his partner, and back. "She did seem a bit off the last few days."

"Off how?" Fudge asked, turning away from the window.

"Tense, like something was troubling her, I think."

"Hmm," Shacklebolt said, swiping a hand over his bald, gleaming head. "Do you have any idea why that might have been?"

"No." She frowned. "Lavender keeps a lot of things to herself until she's ready to say something. Then, it all just sort of bursts out in a—"

"Miss Granger." Fudge's voice cut in with an air of authority. Immediately she understood that Shacklebolt was _not_ the one in charge. "Rather early this morning, you were seen returning to Gryffindor Hall."

Hermione froze instantly, her heart dropping into her stomach.

_"What if someone sees?"_

_Draco leaned just a bit closer, his lips moving against hers as he whispered back, "Terrifying, isn't it?"_

"I don't understand," she whispered numbly, surprised she managed to force her vocal cords to work. "What does that—?"

"Well, it has been mentioned that you and Miss Brown had a feud."

"That was back in secondary school," she said, her tone suddenly confident. If they thought they'd intimidate her into misspeaking and making herself sound guilty of something by drudging up the past, they had another thing coming! "Lavender and I have been friends for _months_, now."

"So then what were you doing out, alone, last night when your friend went missing, Miss Granger?"

_How did it come to this_, she wondered, in a bit of a daze as she stared up Shacklebolt. He might speak more kindly than Fudge, but his suspicion was no less obvious. Tell them about Draco, or implicate herself in her friend's disappearance?

It seemed her answer should be obvious, yet she hesitated. Dropping her gaze to the floor, Hermione gnawed on her lip for a long, painfully quiet moment before she could force out the words.

"I wasn't alone, I was with someone. And it's just . . . my best friend, Harry, he doesn't know. We've had to sneak around 'cause my friends sort of hate him. Like I'm . . . supposed to hate him," she concluded, her voice barely above a whisper.

That was odd. Just the other day, she'd loathed him so much she wouldn't have spit on him to put him out if he'd been on fire. Now, however . . . well, _now_ she still didn't quite like him, but she wasn't entirely certain how much she hated him, anymore.

If not for the two men boring holes into the top of her head, she might've taken the time to wonder what exactly had happened to cause that shift.

"So you were out with a boy?"

She repressed the strong urge to groan and roll her gaze toward the ceiling. Were they purposely making the students sound so very young?

"Yes."

"We'll need his name."

Hermione looked at them in turn, once more. She knew they were going to ask, knew they had to ask. Even so, it took a bit more of their suspicious, inquiring stares before she could respond.

Slumping back in the chair, she hid her face behind her hands as she muttered, "Draco Malfoy."

"Isn't that Lucius Malfoy's kid?"

"Bollocks," Shacklebolt said tightly, losing his cool demeanor for just a second.

She peeked through her fingers at the men's faces. She couldn't make heads or tails of their expressions. Were they afraid, or angry?

"Miss Granger, you can wait outside." Fudge offered a poorly feigned smile as he gestured toward the door.

Nodding stiffly, Hermione peeled herself out of the plush armchair and exited the room.

"Better keep it civil and light, Fudge," she heard Shacklebolt warn before the door closed. "The last thing we want is to have that arrogant bastard putting his nose in the middle of this."

_Lucius Malfoy an arrogant bastard?_ She thought with a small laugh as she took a seat in the main office. _I suppose some personality traits_ are _genetic._

Sighing heavily, she pulled a text from her bag and cracked it open in her lap.

* * *

As soon as he stepped into the larger office that lead to the dean's he saw her, her head tipped down as she read some book or another. He'd known the moment she'd been told to come here what would happen.

She'd been out late last night, her friend had gone missing. It didn't take a genius to put it together. In fact, he'd been patiently waiting in the Slytherin Hall common area for someone to summon him back to main building.

As he approached, she looked up, chestnut eyes wide. _Sorry_, she mouthed, looking deliciously innocent. Clearly she thought he'd be angry with her. Well, if that's what she expected . . . .

Oh, yes, then for this he was going to make her squirm.

He only frowned at her, striding past and knocking on the door. From the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers twisting the cuffs of her sleeves. Draco held back a grin, purposely scowling as the door opened, and he stepped into the room.

* * *

Hermione watched the door for what seemed forever before it opened. Shacklebolt and Fudge both gave her a quick, unreadable once-over as Draco stalked out of the office.

Fudge cleared his throat awkwardly as he plucked a card from his wallet and held it out to her. "Yes, well, that's all . . . cleared up now. Should you think of anything that might help, anything at all, call us."

Nodding, she took the card, mystified by their change in attitude. Certainly Draco _was_ a Malfoy, but there was no way he personally had the standing to ruffle their feathers. She forced herself to remain still until they retreated into the dean's office and closed the door.

Shoving her book away as she scrambled out of the seat, she hurried through the exit after Draco.

There he was, not far ahead, strolling lazily down the vacant corridor. Platinum hair set against his usual perfect black turtle neck, he was beacon.

"Malfoy," she hissed in a whisper as she caught up to him.

"Hmm?" He didn't turn to look at her, only continuing at his bored, leisurely pace.

"What did you say to them?"

"Oh, that." He shrugged, giving her a sideways glance. "I said last night we were sleeping together."

Stunned, Hermione stopped in her tracks, convinced she must've misheard him. "You . . . you said . . . . _What?_"

Turning on a heel to face her, he let a slow grin curve his lips. She really was easy to toy with. Taking a step toward her, he leaned close, whispering in her ear, "I told them we were _far_ too busy shagging to notice anything else."

He pulled back only enough for his eyes to lock on hers. All she could do was stare back at him, her mouth hanging open a little as a blush tinted her cheeks.

"It'll be true soon enough, won't it?" Draco held her gaze as he asked.

Without waiting for her to respond, he turned away, disappearing into one of the stairwell doors.

Hermione let out a shaky breath, groaning inwardly. She'd have _loved _to have told him no, but she was pretty sure they would both know she was lying.

"God, I hate him," she said, balling her hands into fists.

"Good to know that's all still in order." Draco's voice made her jump; she noticed only now that he'd lingered in the doorway. "Now, are you coming?"

She tipped her head to one side as she looked at him questioningly.

"Oh, well, _clearly_ not at the moment," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over her as he waved a hand in an _after you_ gesture. "We really should see to that."

The meaning of his words shot through her like a jolt of electricity, setting off that sweet, warm pulse between her thighs and she forced a breath. Nodding slowly, Hermione let Draco lead her from the corridor.


	15. Precarious Reality

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Precarious Reality

Lavender's eyes fluttered open, slowly, and with great effort. Her lids felt so _very_ heavy. Everything looked strange—globby, sort of fuzzy around the edges—until a face came into view, hovering above hers in the soft, sparsely illuminated darkness.

His brown hair was neatly swept back, and she could make out the edge of a shirt collar, but his unshaven state and the faint bruises beneath his eyes gave the impression of sleepless nights.

She pulled at her shoulders, attempting to sit up, wondering dimly why her arms and legs wouldn't move.

"Shh," he whispered, wiping gentle fingers across her brow and smoothing her hair back from her forehead. "Don't fret, you're safe, pretty one."

Her eyes drifted closed again. Keeping them open was such a struggle. In the back of her mind, she understood that she should be alarmed, that there was no way whatever was happening around her was correct, or _safe, _yet she couldn't force herself to care.

"Where am I?"

He uttered a small, strangely endearing chuckle as his fingertips stroked down the insides of her bare arms.

She thought that odd, as well. Hadn't she been wearing long sleeves? Lavender shifted her body, but only a little—that was all she had the strength to manage. There was no tug of clothing between her and the surface upon which she lay, no press of fabric against her skin.

Alarm washed through her, but as quickly as it appeared, the emotion was tamped down by how very relaxed and drowsy she was.

"You are where you belong, Eleven."

"Eleven," she echoed in a mumble, dragging her lids open once more. "That's not my name, it's a number."

"It . . . is . . . what . . . you . . . are."

She forced her head to turn, exhausted by the effort, as she searched the darkness for the unnerving, mingled voices. "I don't understand."

"Shh, shh, shh," the man said again, grasping her hand in his for a moment, in what she almost thought was a gesture of comfort. "_You_ don't need to understand."

He turned her wrist upward and suddenly pain shot through her arm.

Lavender whimpered, trying to pull out of his grasp. "What are you doing to me?"

"That is something else you don't need to understand," he murmured, the gentle cadence of his voice disturbing against the backdrop uncertainty about what was happening to her. "But, if you're really so curious," he glanced from whatever he was doing, up to her face, and back, "I will show you."

He slid a hand beneath her neck, cupping the back of her skull to raise her head. "You're going to make my Lord stronger, so he can finish it."

A trembling gasp escaped her lips as her gaze traveled the length of her own nude form, over thick straps that held her in place, to her arm. He held her wrist delicately with his other hand, lifting it into her range of sight. A thin tube pierced the skin, crimson liquid seeping out of her and down, beyond the lip of the table upon which she lay.

She could see the upper part of her other arm and shuddered as a glint of metal caught her eye. Malformed fingers gripped her elbow as the blade dragged, sending new ripples of pain through her entire body.

Lavender tried to scream, but all that came out was a weak, hiccupping squeal. "Pl-please stop!"

"Hush, pretty girl, hush," the man said, easing her head down on the table and once more smoothing her hair back. "Just rest. This will be over soon."

She shook her head, straining against the weight of her own limbs, whining behind closed lips at the agonizing tugging of the blade through her flesh. Slowly the pain ebbed, and despite her struggle to stay awake, she felt herself drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Hermione frowned, ignoring the gazes that followed her as Draco led her up the stairs of Slytherin Hall. She'd be surprised if they didn't frisk her to check she wasn't stealing anything on her way out. She just counted herself lucky that most of the Hall's occupants were elsewhere.

She was nerve-wracked enough that he'd convinced her—she still wasn't entirely certain how—to return to this accursed place. He'd reminded her that only they, and Snape, knew they'd turned in their first assignment early, so they had the entire weekend to use their research as an excuse for disappearing together.

But then he continued on past the rooms and further down the winding corridor.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see," he said simply, stopping before a door at the end and listening.

He held up a hand, cautioning her as he turned the knob, pulled the door open and poked his head inside.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she gave a cursory glance over her shoulder, assuring herself that no one was about.

"All right, it's empty." He opened the door fully and nodded inside.

She looked at the flight of stairs and raised a brow. Now that she thought on it, she'd never really wondered where the entrance to Gryffindor's attic was. Really, she only frequented the main areas and her own room; that decision was based more on the inherent spookiness of the campus buildings than any wish not to explore.

"You could have just said 'the attic,'" she pointed out.

He smirked, nodding inside once more. "Just go on."

Shaking her head, Hermione stepped through the entryway and started up the stairs. The unexpected slap on the bottom he gave tore a surprised yelp from her lips. She turned her head, glaring at him over her shoulder.

Draco responded with that smug, infuriating grin—the one she told herself she still absolutely hated now as much as she had a near three weeks ago, before this had all started—as he stepped in and locked the door behind him.

Reaching the top step, she found herself looking into a plush lounge area; marble coffee table, dark leather furniture and, of course, vending machines. "God, you guys really _are_ spoiled," she hissed before she could stop the words from slipping out.

"Funny thing is, nobody even uses this room all that much."

"Oh, like that's supposed to make me think of you lot as any less—"

He spun her around and pulled her close, covering her mouth with his. Gripping a hand into her hair, he tipped her head to one side, sucking and nipping at her lower lip.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, feigning a severe expression. "I'm eventually going to get tired of shutting you up."

She drew a trembling breath and let it out slowly. "So then I should just stop talking altogether?"

"And rob me of opportunities to give your mouth something better to do?" He smirked once more as he moved away to take a seat on the sofa and crooked a finger at her. "Absolutely not."

Biting her lip uncertainly, she stepped closer, moving slowly as she straddled his lap and settled against him. "So this is sort of strange, isn't it?"

"What is?" He unbuttoned her shirt, sweeping it open.

"It's day time. We can _see_ each other . . . we're _in_doors. That's sort of . . . all new."

Draco grazed his teeth over one satin-covered nipple, grinning at the gasp it coaxed from her. "Am I hearing a sudden objection?"

"That's not what I meant," she whispered, her tone breathy as she gripped her fingers into his hair.

"Oh?" Grasping her hips, he held her to him and turned, pinning her beneath him on the sofa. "Then what?"

"It just—" She gasped, her eyelids fluttering as he rolled his hips, pushing himself between her thighs. "I-it makes everything a little more _real_."

He arched a brow, dropping kisses along her skin and drawing quick, teasing patterns with the tip of his tongue as he slid down her body. Draco looked up only after his knees hit the floor, meeting her gaze as he unbuttoned her jeans. "It has felt a little like we've been sleepwalking, hasn't it?"

She nodded, feeling her cheeks warm as she lifted herself, helping him as he tugged her clothing down around her ankles. Hermione wanted to hide her face behind her hands, yet she didn't want to stop watching him.

He slid a hand between her thighs, fingers parting her delicately. Pursing his lips, he leaned close, blowing a warm breath over her and she shivered. "Shh, shh," he whispered. "I _did _say I've been curious about what you taste like, didn't I?"

Clamping her lips together, she nodded again, unable to speak as he ducked beneath her leg, pulling her thighs over his shoulders. He circled her with an arm, parting her once more.

She couldn't take her eyes from him as his tongue flicked out, stroking her fast and teasingly at first. After a few trembling heartbeats, his eyes drifted closed and he buried his mouth against slick, pink flesh.

He sealed his lips around the pulsing little bundle of nerves, lapping and suckling at it. Honestly, he didn't know what was more rewarding, the sound of her soft, whimpering little moans or the way she clutched at his hair, helpless beneath the swirling motions of his tongue.

She wasn't certain what was more unthinkable, that she had Draco Malfoy's mouth between her legs, or that he was _this_ good. Yet that wasn't all he was doing—she tensed for a moment as he entered her, slow and deep, with two fingers.

A groan escaped his throat as she rocked her hips, pushing against his hand. She was warm, and wet, and tight as she writhed beneath his mouth and clenched around his plunging fingers.

Her muscles trembling, she tensed around him, biting hard into her bottom lip to keep from crying out as she came.

Making a low, satisfied growling sound, he circled the tip of his tongue over her. He stroked hard with each sweep against her, his finger stabbing into her in time with the working of his mouth, until she was spent, rocking beneath his lips once more as she let out tiny, mewling breaths.

When she stilled, he withdrew slowly, pressing a hungry kiss to each inner thigh before he slipped from between her legs. He simply rested his elbows on the edge of the sofa, watching as she shielded her face with her hands while she caught her breath, making no move yet to right her clothing.

A short, embarrassed giggle tore out of her suddenly, causing his eyebrows to shoot up into his hair. "I . . . I can't believe that you just . . . . Oh, _wow_."

"Don't worry, Granger," he said with a smirk as he reached over, tracing teasing circles over one of her nipples with edge of his thumb. "You'll return the favor soon enough."

Her fingers slipped away from her eyes slowly and she met his gaze. He could tell from her look that she was smiling as she said, "Sure of that, are you?"

His smirk widened into a grin. "Oh, I'm _counting_ on it."

She sprang forward suddenly, pressing a kiss against the side of his throat. Just the quick brush of her lips, a flick of her tongue across his skin, before she leaned back once more to pull her clothes back into place.

"Certainly are confident, Malfoy," she murmured as she sat up finally, still catching her breath a little.

He quirked a brow, reaching to run a fingertip over her lips. "You can't say you doubt me."

"I can _say_ whatever I like," she pointed out, catching the tip of his finger between her teeth.

Over his shoulder, she spotted a flurry of motion through the window. Frowning, she just as quickly relinquished her playful hold and stood.

He almost found it amusing, the way her shaky legs faltered beneath her a moment, but the look on her face was too serious for any humor. Instead, he got to his feet and followed her to the window.

Outside on the campus grounds below, uniformed security staff seemed to roam everywhere. Hermione forced a gulp down her throat. Everything was so _real_—so much more real than any of it had felt just that morning. The swarm of people patrolling outside was a testament to that.

She frowned, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. Everything _was_ real—her and Draco, the weird dreams connecting them to some shrouded past, Lavender's disappearance.

"Look," he said, his tone low as he pointed toward the church and its little cemetery. Far enough that they looked like ants, but she could see security officers circling the crumbling fence. "There's no way we can get in there with these guards everywhere."

"This is just how things are until Lavender comes back."

He turned from the window to look at her at the same moment as she turned to lift her face toward him. "You think she's going to come back?"

Hermione shrugged, her chestnut eyes wide. "I have to. When someone goes missing there's only two things that happen, they come back on their own, or they're_ found_."

Draco furrowed his brow. "What's the difference? Resolution's resolution, right? You still learn what's happened to them."

Her lids drifted down against sudden, frightened tears as she realized how terrible she was being. Here she was, having a good time with a guy she was supposed to hate while her friend was out there, going through God only knew what.

But then she wasn't entirely certain she had anything to feel terrible about, there was nothing she could do for Lavender. The uncertainty about her own feelings left a cold emptiness in the pit of her stomach.

"If someone has to _find_ her," she explained in a whisper, fearing her voice would give out on her any second, "it means something's happened to her, so she _can't_ come back on her own."

Draco was terrified for a moment as he heard the first sobbing breath. Women crying wasn't any man's strong suit, he was sure. After a moment, he let out a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes as he—against his own better judgment—slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close as she wept.


	16. Falsehoods

**Please Note**: Some stories are going on hiatus. I will do my best to keep readers posted on which fics will take a pause &amp; when—and especially when they will continue. At the moment, _Wizard Theory_, _The Meekdragon Legacy_ and _Unnatural Magick_ are listed as On Hiatus on the update schedule (as well as in their site summaries). A few others may follow. I apologize to anyone reading those stories. I'm not abandoning them, and they will continue, I just need to trim down the workload until I can get things running smoothly.

Any new stories you see starting in the meanwhile (like _Beautiful Creature_ the other night) are not 'new', but were upcoming fics I've had on the back burner for months, now. I just need to get the openings for them out of the way. They are not the reason for putting older fics on hiatus, nor will I be pushing aside other fics to work on them.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Falsehoods

Draco dropped the box on the table, a plume of dust rising from the impact.

Hermione coughed and waved a hand in front of her face. She shot him an unhappy look.

"Sorry," he said with a chuckle.

Her lips pinched, trying to hide a grin. "No, you're not."

"All right; no, I'm not." He shrugged as he took a seat beside her and began pulling papers from the box.

They fell quiet as he shuffled through the pile, discarding what she imagined were the periodicals he already knew were of no use from his previous search. He set a few from the obvious _keep_ pile in front of her and opened the first he'd placed in front of himself.

"There _was_ an article on it, but we might be able to find more information in the obituaries."

Nodding, she flipped through the first few pages. "Will you tell me what you were looking for that day I found you in the storeroom?"

He didn't answer right away and she looked up. His expression tightened as he stared at the print before him. "Turns out sometimes old things like this are more reliable than the internet. You can't erase these words, can't go back and un-write them."

Her brow furrowed, but she only waited for a less muddled response.

"People can keep something from becoming public knowledge by simply _not_ putting it out there. My father shuts down whenever anything connected to the year of the murders is mentioned, I was trying to find out why."

"All of our parents do that," Hermione said, tipping her head to catch his gaze. "That was always sort of the one thing every one of us had in common growing up."

"No, this is . . . different. You don't know my father, but to call Lucius Malfoy a difficult man is an understatement." He turned the pages idly, but continued to look at her. "If there was something he considered an untouchable subject, he'd state it outright. No fuss about it. But, as I said, when it comes to that _entire_ year, he just closes off; won't say a word. I always figured it might be a case he lost. I couldn't find anything about it through _any_ sort of internet archive, so when I found the old papers in the storeroom, I thought they might have something to go on."

She nodded, returning her attention to the paper. "I guess that makes sense." The date caught her attention and she ran the tip of her fingers across it on the page. "That's odd."

"What?" Draco shifted closer to peer over her shoulder.

"Well, we were all about a year old when this all happened, and it just struck me. Ron had an aunt who died this same year."

"Died how?"

Hermione shook her head, "Don't know, some illness, I think. There was some outbreak, or something. We always thought it such a bizarre coincidence, because Neville also had a relative—a female cousin, older, I think—who died from the same thing, too. And Lavender. Wait," she bit her lip a moment as she thought.

"My friend Luna . . . she's a year younger than us, but her mother died then, too; only a few months after Luna was born. I don't think any of us ever really knew what any of them were sick _with_, though. We were children, probably thought of pneumonia, or something. Even . . . even Ron and his sister Ginny lost someone . . . ."

He slid a hand around her upper arm, turning her away from the paper to face him. "My aunt, Bellatrix, died that year, too. Parents brushed me off whenever I asked what made her so sick. After a while, I just gave up and forgot about it. Pansy, Blaise, Crabbe, Goyle, they had relatives that died then, too. We all thought it funny—" He cut himself off when she gave him a bewildered look. "Not funny ha-ha, funny _odd_. Anyway, we never thought much of it. Just some weird mystery plague, but . . . ."

"All of you? And _all _of my friends?" she said, her voice shaking a little. "That _can't_ be a coincidence."

"Didn't Potter's mum and dad die that year, too? Another—what I'm now suspecting is _complete_ bullshit—sickness?"

"No, that's just the story the public was given," Hermione's words rushed out, thoughtless as she began searching for the obituaries. "Harry's parents were . . . ."

He gave her sidelong glance. "His parents was . . . ?"

"I can't say," she explained, meeting his eyes. "But it definitely wasn't failing health."

"How did we not see something strange about this sooner?"

"Outbreaks of illnesses come and go, all the time. You don't think much more about it, I suppose. Maybe it's that we never had _reason_ to look at it before."

His brow furrowed as his gaze slid to the periodicals, so he missed her sudden look of puzzlement. "But not you?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You said 'all of you, and all of _my_ friends,' but no one in your family died that year?"

Her expression shifted from puzzled to troubled. "No one. Okay, look, I have to tell you something, but you must swear you won't say anything. You _have_ to act like you don't know."

"Very serious tone you're taking, Granger."

She frowned. "Very serious matter, Malfoy."

"Fair enough." He graced her with an eye roll. "I _swear_, I will act as though I don't know anything about what you're going to tell me."

For a long, pained moment, she only held his gaze, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. Hermione opened her mouth, but no words would come. She'd never spoken the words aloud, never thought she would have to, but now, with the chilling notion tumbling through her head, she didn't see she had much choice.

"You remember who Lily Evans was?"

He granted her a withering look. "Of course; even if we _hadn't_ been staring at her name for eight days."

Her eyes drifted closed as she whispered, "I'm so sorry Harry." Opening them, she kept her gaze averted as she went on, her voice only a hint louder. "She was . . . Harry's mother. Lily Evans-_Potter_."

Draco's eyes widened and his shoulders slumped. "Potter's mother was Riddle's last victim?"

Lids sweeping down against tears of shame, she nodded. If Harry ever learned she'd told Draco Malfoy, of all people, she knew he'd _never_ forgive her. But, she was beginning to suspect that his father, Lucius, had known all along. All of their families probably at least knew _of_ each other, she realized now.

Brow furrowing, he grasped at the words, cobbling together this revelation with what he knew of Riddle's attack on Lily. "So the man Riddle killed trying to get to her . . . ?"

Again, Hermione nodded. "Harry's father, James."

His own eyes drifted closed, now. "Why are you telling me this, Granger?" Honestly, the knowledge almost compelled him to feel bad for tormenting Potter all these years. _Almost_.

"The public story has always been that Harry's mum and dad died after contracting some illness, but they were really killed by Riddle. Maybe we're looking at this wrong. What if the story they told about Lily was actually the common practice for the PR surrounding Riddle's victims? What if that's what really happened to all your relatives?"

Draco frowned. "That also would have to mean we were pouring over fake names this whole time."

"And that _would _make it eleven, like Voldemort." She shrugged as she wrapped her arms around herself, her skin icy from the discussion, alone. "Fake names and cover stories to protect the victims' families; makes sense. The same way the public was only ever given Lily's maiden name."

"My mother's sister was one of Riddle's victims."

The hollow tone in his voice made her chest clench for a painful second and Hermione forced herself to remember there was nothing wrong with being compassionate. She had no true understanding of what hearing such news must be like, even for a cruel, snarky prat like him.

Her emotional response had nothing to do with Draco, himself. It couldn't, it simply could _not_.

"Seems so," she whispered, her gaze searching his face. "I'm sorry."

"That's probably why my parents act the way they do about the matter, but let's_ not_ focus on that now." Draco leaned back, draping one arm over the back of the sofa. "So all this time, all our families hid this from us. It's a bit . . . much, isn't it? Me, my friends, your friends. I can't wrap my head around this."

"It is a bit much, I agree. But if you were in your parents' position? Would you want to have to explain such a gruesome death in the family to your child, regardless of how old they were?"

He scowled, but wasn't certain he wanted to give his parents any leniency in this. "I suppose not."

"But you're right. Let's move on from that and try to take the larger picture one step at a time, then." Her head was spinning and she pressed her fingers to her temples to still her swirling thoughts, but it offered little relief. "Voldemort kills eleven people, Riddle kills eleven people. Presumably Riddle was copying Voldemort. But the question is why?"

"Because they were both barking mad?"

She dropped her hands, turning her head to look at him. His brows had shot up, all but disappearing into his hair and she couldn't help the small laugh his expression edged out of her.

"No, I mean . . . Voldemort was after something. I think Riddle figured out whatever that was."

"Okay, now I think _you're_ barking mad."

"I . . . ." She scowled at him. "I mean if we think back on what Voldemort was doing. You felt it, right? In the dreams there was really something going on there, something—"

"I swear, if you say magical, I'm going to choke myself to death with those newspapers."

Irritated expression crumbling, she burst out in surprised laughter. "Shut it! I'm being serious, here. It's not the right time for humor."

"Topic's a bit _too_ serious and that's always the exact right time for humor. Nothing wrong with a bit of levity, Granger." Glancing about quickly—despite that they were alone in a locked attic—he scooped her up and set her in his lap.

"Malfoy!"

"Well," he said, blatantly ignoring her protest as he slid his arms around her waist, "go on, already. You were saying?"

She took a deep breath and released it slowly, her cheeks puffing out. "You said yourself, you felt something—like Voldemort had bound them all together. Maybe the murders were really some type of ritual sacrifices."

Sighing heavily, he dropped his head down against her shoulder, not liking where this was going at all. "So when you say he was after something, you mean he was trying to _gain _something through whatever sort of warped, dark magic they practiced here?"

Hermione nodded as she rested her arms over his. "Exactly. Think about it, maybe there is some link and that's what drew us all together? Well, at least the rest of you; I'm apparently sort of extraneous at this point."

"Drew us all together? Do you hear yourself?" He gave a confused frown. "It's hardly as through we're all friends."

"Yes, that's true, _but _we are two groups of friends who've always been quite naturally at odds with each other."

"How is that the same thing?"

She shrugged, pouting thoughtfully. "Sometimes people just have a certain type of chemistry."

"Well, _we_ certainly have chemistry, but as you said,_ you're_ extraneous."

"Funny. I mean other than the rivalry; it always seemed that wherever one group was, the other one always turned up, too. And have you ever noticed how none of us can really ignore each other?"

"I'm pretty sure we've all tried, though."

She bit back a chuckle. "I'm aware."

"Okay, let's say that we all have some sort of connection because of Riddle. How does that help us at all?"

Groaning, she let her head fall back against Draco's. "I'm not sure it does. Not unless we can figure out what he was after."

"I'd be a little more concerned with _how_ Riddle found out about whatever Voldemort was doing."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged, the motion causing her to shift against him. "Think about it. The only reason we know half of what we know is because of some weird post-cognitive dreams and sheer dumb luck of stumbling over bits of otherwise random-seeming information. If either one of us was going through this alone, if we didn't have one another to bounce all these completely mad ideas off of, I'm pretty sure _we'd_ be convinced we'd lost our minds by now."

"And Riddle only had himself."

He moved his head from beneath hers, pointedly propping his chin on her shoulder to look at the newspapers. "As far as we know, he only had himself."

"Riddle didn't _know_ any of his sacrifices, personally." Hermione reached for one, opening it for them, both, to read. "So back to the suicides, is what you're saying?"

"Not this one," he said, his gaze moving over the papers scattered across the table. He pointed. "That one there."

"Oh." Dropping the one in her hand on the sofa beside them she leaned forward, reaching for the paper he'd indicated.

Hiding a grin, he tightened his arms around her and pushed his hips up, pressing himself against her.

Her eyelids fluttered at the delicious little thrill that coursed through her body as her hand closed on the paper and she sat back. "You totally did that on purpose."

"Yes, I totally did," he admitted, nipping playfully at the side of her throat. "But that _is_ the correct one."

"It really is amazing we've gotten any work done at all."

Once more he shrugged as he watched her open the paper and begin turning pages. "I guess we just make a good team, even if we hate saying it."

Hermione couldn't help laughing. "A good team that can't seem to think around their urges?"

"I said good—I didn't say anything about convenient or productive."

"Convenience can go hang." She shook her head, she might not admit to what she and Draco had really been up to, but she'd be lying outright if she tried to hide from _him_ that she enjoyed their little secret meetings as much as he did. "But I'd say we've actually been quite productive."

"If not for those urges, we probably could've had this entire thing sorted a week ago."

She cleared her throat as she folded the paper, the article on the suicides open in front of them. "Fine, quite productive under the circumstances."

Draco gave a sideways nod. "Close enough."

Skimming the article, she said in a murmur, "If Riddle did put this together all on his own somehow, then maybe he _did_ go mad. But I've got the most dreadful gnawing feeling that Voldemort was _quiet _sane. Still, thank God we've at least got each other."

Mind on the words in front her, she didn't notice the way his posture stiffened against her. He sat up just a little straighter, his gaze on the side of her face for a moment before he, too, looked to the article.

"Yes, thank God," he echoed, his voice barely audible.

* * *

"I am not enjoying the increased security," Ginny hissed, stuffing her belongings back into her bag as Harry and Ron led her away from the security station. "Has there really been no word on Lavender?"

Exchanging a glance, the young men shook their heads.

"I heard Hermione was dragged into the office to talk to the police after her last class," Harry said, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Ron folded his arms across his chest rolling his eyes as Ginny dropped a kiss on Harry's lips—couldn't they be a more _little _sensitive to how awkward he always felt around his best friend and his sister acting all couply? "She should've been done hours ago. Where the bloody hell is she, then?"

Harry shrugged as he caught Ginny's hand in his own and started toward Gryffindor Hall. "Probably off with the Demon King, again."

"You mean Draco Malfoy?" she asked, trying to clarify.

"Who else would I mean?" Honestly, as though anyone else they knew fit that title. "That stupid paper on Riddle's due Monday, even with all this chaos."

Ginny's brows pinched together and her lips folded inward as she thought back on her discussion with Luna last weekend. Dear God, was it only last weekend?

Ron caught her expression. "What's wrong?"

"Hmm?" She shook her head, forcing a smile. "Oh, nothing. Just . . . wondering how she puts up with him without killing him."

Harry's green eyes rolled behind his glasses as he laughed. "We've all been wondering that."

Ginny cringed as Ron climbed the steps ahead of them, hoping she and Luna had been wrong.


	17. Dim Recollections

I apologize that there were no updates this past week. Unfortunately I've been really sidetracked with getting things in order for publication of future novels, and it's like time is just escaping me—I look at the calendar and suddenly, it's a month, 2 months, 3 months since I updated _this_ story or _that_ one. I'm very unhappy about how long it's taking me to get back to working on my fanfictions and hope that you guys will be patient just a little longer while I get this all under control.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

Dim Recollections

"C'mon, Hermione," Harry said, the exasperated expression on his face making her wonder if he wasn't about to toss her over his shoulder and abscond with her from the library. "It's Saturday, for pity's sake. I'm sure whatever work you've done by now is _more_ than enough to appease even Snape."

She flicked her gaze upward to look at him over the top of the screen. A twinge of guilt wound through her that she'd allowed her friends to believe that dreadful assignment still hung over her head, but that was the only excuse she could think of to gain a few moments privacy.

Some of those _private _moments had been spent panting and half-naked with Draco Malfoy, sure, but . . . well, that wasn't exactly something she could tell her friends, either.

Harry wouldn't walk around the table to see what was actually on the computer, just in case he might spy some new, terrible information about Riddle that he didn't want to know. She was certain that was likely the only thing barring him from physically dragging her away from the keyboard.

Hermione hadn't told anyone about her Riddle murders cover up theory. She didn't know how to broach such a delicate matter. More troubling, still, she would have to explain how she'd come to such an unsettling conclusion, but she had already tried.

She'd spent most of last night's sleepless hours pacing her room, constructing explanation after explanation, breakdown after breakdown. Every word sounded completely mad out of context to what she and Malfoy had learned, first-hand.

And she didn't imagine any news that was cushioned in the Hermione-and-Draco angle would go over very well with her friends. The only way for any of it to make sense would be for her to walk them through every revelation—every nerve-wracked, sleep-deprived, ghost-whispering moment.

She wasn't entirely certain that _any _of it would sound logical to someone with a fully rested mind. True, she couldn't discount any of it, but she simply couldn't share, either.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, there's just this one last thing I wanted to check," she said with an apologetic smile.

Despite the results of their first search, she'd decided to look into the name Voldemort again. Nothing had come up, even local history hadn't given her anything about the sacrifices of the clergy. Though, she thought perhaps that shouldn't be a surprise, since they'd already concluded that the story had been largely kept from public knowledge.

She was starting to believe Draco was right—their best chance at finding any clues was probably in that crumbling, decrepit death-trap of a church. But then she'd remembered that Voldemort wasn't the only name they had to go on.

Harry had walked in just as she'd been about to type _Albus Dumbledore _into the search engine.

He frowned. "I've lost enough time with you to Malfoy, already. C'mon. Look, if you can't make it through a little pizza without worrying yourself sick over this paper, then I'll bring you right back here myself.

As he spoke, she quietly typed in the name and hit _enter_. She forced a sigh, rolling her eyes—he was right, of course, she needed to eat—and clicked on the first link to pop up. She recognized that he deliberately avoided mentioning Lavender, or, more appropriately the lack of information regarding Lavender. They all were. There was no other way to keep from shutting down, to keep from locking themselves away from the world in Gryffindor Hall, cut off the world and obsessing over all the maybes of what _might_ have happened to her.

_She's okay. Wherever she is, she's okay. She _must_ be, _Hermione told herself, her inner-voice adamant.

Frowning thoughtfully, she opened a new window and emailed herself the link, cc'ing Draco.

"Hermione," Harry said impatiently.

Clearing the search history, she pushed out of the seat and grabbed her bag. "Fine, fine. No more today."

* * *

The buzzing of his mobile close to his ear roused Draco from out of drowsy half-sleep. He rubbed his fists against his eyes and sat up slowly. The prattling of voices around him silenced instantly, giving him the oddest sensation that his friends were holding their breath as they waited to for him to speak or do something.

Frowning, he glanced from Crabbe to Goyle, and then Pansy to Blaise. They all looked . . . pale, drained. Pansy was the only one not sporting dark circles under her eyes, but he'd wager that was more the magic of makeup than the benefit of having rested more than the others. Strange, they all looked like they'd not been sleeping, either. How had he not noticed sooner?

Probably because he'd been distracted by Granger. Oh, and the whole Riddle mess, too.

He shifted against the armchair in which he'd, apparently, been dozing. "Why d'you all look like death warmed over?"

Pansy let out a hopeless sigh—the boy never listened. She wondered briefly if she should give up on the idea of them ever being an item again. "Draco, we just discussed this yesterday." Casting a concerned look around the coffee table, she went on, "Nobody's been sleeping well. Seems like everyone's having bad dreams. And then there's this business with that girl from Gryffindor Hall vanishing."

Draco sat forward, suddenly wide awake—or as close as he could be in his sleep-deprived state—as his gaze darted about the group. "Dreams about what?"

"That's the thing," Blaise said, his tone low and thoughtful. "We can't remember, not well, anyway. I mean, I think I remember something about . . . a bonfire? Maybe?"

Draco arched a brow. "A bonfire, _maybe_?"

"I remember something about . . . ." Pansy's words trailed off and she looked at the floor as she bit her lip. "Sorry, I—I can't say. It's too . . . ."

"Well?" Blaise prompted with a smirk.

She blushed and thumped his knee with her fist. "I'm not sure I should say, but, um . . . ."

Grey eyes rolling exhaustedly, Draco raised a hand in surrender. "Fine, fine, we get it. What about you two?" He asked of Crabbe and Goyle.

The two—who, Draco thought of facetiously in moments like this as The Brain-Trust—exchanged a glance and then each shrugged. Honestly, they were lucky if they possessed half a brain, put together. If they weren't legacy, there was no way they'd have made it into Rowling.

"I remember feeling like something really bad was happening," Crabbe said, muttering his words. He seemed to think his inability to recollect anything more was a disappointment to Draco.

Or—Draco considered with a barely-concealed scowl—a disappointment to a _Malfoy_.

Goyle remained silent, his chubby face tightened in concentration as he tried to recall some detail more than the others had.

"Stop, please," Draco insisted. "You're going to pop a blood vessel."

Heaving a sigh, Goyle nodded and gave up the attempt.

They were all having dreams, all losing sleep. And they'd all lost relatives to Riddle, but . . . he was the only one who knew that. Well, he and Granger. This couldn't be a coincidence.

Snatching up his mobile, he stood and stepped around the table.

"Draco?" Pansy's voice was thin and nagging. "Where are you going?"

Draco had all he could do not to hunch his shoulders at her tone. Now that he thought back on it, perhaps he'd only dated her last year so that silencing her with a kiss was an option.

He shook his head, not looking back at them as he walked across the common area. "I just remembered I still have to finish up that paper for Snape."

Pansy scrunched up her face, speaking in a high pitch. "More time with the common-folk."

With another exasperated eye roll, Draco closed the door on the sound of his friends chuckling.

* * *

"We're trying _not_ to talk about her, Luna," Neville reminded in a light tone.

Luna's wide, dreamy blue eyes looked wider than normal, almost owl-like, Hermione thought, ringed by dark circles as they were.

"Sorry," she said softly, one corner of her mouth twitching as she dropped her gaze to the floor.

Wearing a sad smile, Hermione bumped Luna's shoulder with her own. "It's okay, we're just . . . worried, is all. Don't want to think about it."

Harry was doodling something on a napkin. When Luna peeked between his and Ginny's shoulders to get a look, he folded the paper over on itself. "Excuse me?" He said, feigning irritation.

Casting a quick glance at the other girls, Ginny snatched the napkin from Harry and held it out to Hermione.

Giggling as Harry protested and tried to get the napkin back, Hermione grabbed it and slid from the booth. She opened the napkin and her laughter died on her lips.

"Harry, what is this?"

He shifted uncomfortably as the mood of their collected group suddenly shifted. Something in Hermione's serious, frightened tone spoke to each of them.

"I don't know, really. I think I saw them in a dream."

Hermione reminded herself to breathe as she forced a gulp down her throat. Without another word, she turned on a heel.

"Oy!" Harry said, irritated, but she didn't hear him.

A delicate touch on her arm caught her attention, though. She glanced over her shoulder to see Luna's enormous eyes peering at her. "Luna, I can't explain, but I have to—"

"I know," Luna whispered, her face stern in a way that was very un-Luna. "But I needed to tell _you _that I had a dream, too. The blood of the twelve is all I remember, though."

A chill ran up Hermione's spine. She'd always known about Luna's claims of being psychic, but nothing ever prepared her for the moments the girl made good on those claims. "Blood of the twelve," she echoed breathlessly. "Do you know what that means?"

Luna shook her head. "No, but . . . it needs twelve."

Frowning, Hermione stood a little straighter, glancing briefly at Harry, who was still being talked down by Ginny, Neville, and Ron. Though Ron seemed to only have been paying attention half the time.

"What needs twelve, Luna?"

"I don't know," the wispy girl said with a shrug. "I just remember that. It needs twelve, but twelve it's never been."

Hermione furrowed a brow, glancing from Luna's ever-searching gaze to the napkin in her hand. "I'll . . . I'll try to figure that out, but I think you just helped me with something, Luna!" She dropped a kiss on her friend's cheek and then bolted through the door.

Reaching for her mobile, she nearly dropped it in shock as it rang in her hand. Cutting across the quad at a brisk pace, she looked at the faceplate to see the name _Malfoy_.

Setting the mobile to her ear, she said in a rushed whisper, "That's so weird, I was just about to call you. Is this about the email?"

"What email? I haven't checked. Anyway, I was just coming to find you. We need to talk," he replied, his breathy tone alerting her that he was probably running about, literally trying to find her at that very moment.

"Okay, okay. I'll meet you in the library."

Hanging up, she once more looked to the napkin, to the symbols Harry had drawn. The same symbols on the hidden room's walls, the same symbols on the gravestones.

Only, Harry's drawing included the last symbol. The one that had graced Hermione's arm just a week ago.

* * *

Lavender forced her eyes open. The monumental feat exhausted her. She couldn't remember ever feeling so tired, but there was a gentleness, too. A strange, listless sensation that made her unable to register the fear she dimly recalled from the last time she'd opened her eyes.

She tried, as before to lift her limbs, to feel something, but there seemed nothing to feel. Her arms and legs would not respond. Even shifting in place, to feel the straps against her skin, was more effort than she could manage.

The malformed hands appeared again, hovering over her, but they looked different now. The fingers were straighter, the knuckles less knobby. One hand lowered, gently stroking her face.

A trickle of cold down her cheek made her aware that she was crying. Why was she crying? She couldn't remember, everything was all so fuzzy. Her eyes drifted closed and she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I want to go home."

The gentle one with the dark hair and the exhausted features—the one who was strangely almost handsome—leaned over her, pressing his lips to her forehead. "You're going someplace where there's no pain, isn't that better than any home?"

Unsure why those words sent a chill through her, why they caused a dull, nameless terror to thud through her, she tried to open her mouth again to protest. Her lips refused to work.

Lavender wondered what the odd tugging sensation in the center of her chest was. It reminded her of fabric tearing from being pulled in opposite directions. Her body jerked and she felt oddly disconnected as she drifted off, again.


	18. Untruthfulness

**Chapter Eighteen**

Untruthfulness

Draco frowned, looking over the symbols drawn on the napkin—for what she thought must've been the tenth time—before he finally spoke. "Potter drew these?"

Hermione nodded, but remained silent; her lips pursed as they sat huddled together in a corner of the library. She knew the way they leaned into each other wouldn't look good if any of their friends spotted them, but she was too unnerved to care.

She also couldn't believe she was relying on Draco Malfoy for feelings of comfort or protection, yet she couldn't think of anyone else she'd prefer to have there with her.

"This gets stranger by the minute, but perhaps in a way, it's also starting to make sense."

Meeting his gaze as he slipped the napkin back into her hand, she asked, "What'd you mean?"

He shrugged, sighing. "Well, I was coming to find you because it's not just you and I—and apparently you friends—who're having the dreams, it's my friends, too. _They_ can write this off as one of those Rowling-things, but _we_ can't, not anymore. If we tried to explain it, they'd think we were barking."

"Oh, I know," she said in a murmur, uttering a quick laugh. "I've tried to think it through so many times and it seems to sound more insane, every time."

"Tell me again what your nutty little friend said."

"It must be twelve, but twelve it's never been." Hermione repressed a shudder. The cryptic sentence felt strange rolling off her tongue.

"If we assume Voldemort was the thirteenth symbol that takes him out of the equation, leaving us back at twelve. But his bride escaped the sacrifices, bringing the number down to eleven. We're so stupid."

She couldn't help smirking. "I doubt either of us fits that description."

"No, I . . . ." Mirroring her expression, he leaned closer, nipping the tip of her nose. "I mean it's been right _there_, in front of us. Whatever he was _trying_ to get he couldn't, because he never completed the ritual the sacrifices were part of. Blood of the twelve, the clergy were Voldemort's twelve and your relatives were Riddles."

"So the bride escapes and Voldemort is caught and put to the stake. And then Riddle tries the whole mess all over again, but is killed—"

"Presumably, _before_ he can get to the last person he meant to sacrifice."

"Exactly, so . . . ." She couldn't believe what she was thinking—in fact, she absolutely loathed the words tumbling through her head. "One of _my_ relatives must've been Riddle's chosen number twelve."

Draco shifted against her, looking away. His gaze flitted about the room as he cleared his throat. "I dread to say this, but I'm . . . worried about you, Granger. We're all having these dreams, but you're the only one who was marked, _and_ the only one who didn't lose someone to Riddle."

Hermione's mind stopped working, or at least that was how she felt, as the tiny, ever-babbling inner voice quieted. "I—I don't follow."

He rolled his eyes, lids drifting closed. "Yes, you do. If there's someone out there recreating Voldemort's sacrifice ritual—again—maybe they're trying to avoid Riddle's fate. Rather than reenacting the entire ritual, they're only trying to _complete_ it."

She wrapped her arms around herself as she tried to wish away a sudden wash of goose bumps. "So, then . . . ." She ducked her head, pressing her forehead against the side of his throat. "_I'm_ number twelve, now."

"If we're right. We don't know if any of this is correct. We don't know for certain there's any copycat out there, at all, and even if there is, they might just be copying the crimes, themselves."

"Nothing to do with sacrificial blood rituals, whatsoever, huh?"

"Exactly," he said with a shrug.

She cracked a grin. "I know you think you just spoke rubbish. But thank you."

"Maybe this is a good thing."

Sitting up quickly, she arched a brow. "How?"

He glanced about, somehow more concerned someone might overhear what he was about to say than he'd been about anyone seeing them hang on each other. "The clergy, and Riddle's victims, none of them knew what might be coming, but we do. You think there's some sort of spiritual connection going on here, something linking us to what happened in the past. That we're being made to stay in a state which makes us more susceptible to meditation and trances."

"I vaguely recall saying something to that effect, yes." She told herself she still didn't track his meaning, but only because she wasn't certain she liked where she thought he was going with this.

His face pinched; he disliked what he was about to say, but his idea was no less mad than anything else they'd done the past two weeks. Dear _God_, had it really only been two weeks? "Use the connection. When you're falling asleep, focus on the dreams you've had so far. Maybe you'll have another that will tell you something more."

"You mean something that'll tell us what the ritual was intended to accomplish?"

He nodded, his expression still dour. "That's exactly what I mean."

"I don't like this plan," she whispered.

"I don't, either. Not really."

"This whole thing terrifies me," Hermione admitted, finally saying those words aloud. She expected to feel a little better, or to experience some small flood of relief now that she'd shared that, but nothing of the sort happened.

Draco's gaze searched her face before he lifted a hand, tracing his fingertips along her jaw. "Like you said, at least you're not alone."

One corner of her mouth lifted in a tiny half-smile. "I vaguely recall saying something to that effect," she repeated.

A sound like a funeral dirge came from his pocket. She tore herself from his side, her attention glued to the source of the noise.

His eyes squeezed shut as he extracted his mobile. "And that would be my father calling."

"Are you serious?"

He nodded.

"And he knows that's the ringtone you chose for him?"

He shook his head, eyes so wide the effect was comical, as he answered the call. "Father, to what do I owe— I see, well, certainly I—" Rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, he set his jaw. "I understand, I'll be right there."

Hermione glanced around uncertainly, only speaking after he'd put away his mobile. "Right _where_?"

"Slytherin Hall."

She forced a gulp, sitting up a little straighter as she reflected on how uncharacteristically touch-feely she and Draco had been acting up until a moment ago. With how his legacy-brat friends looked at her—for merely spending time with Draco when she wasn't rich and spoiled, like they were—she didn't want to imagine how his father would respond to the _true_ depth of his son's involvement with her.

"What's he doing here?"

"Probably just checking to make certain the police are under _more _than adequate pressure."

"Great, I'll just . . . stay here and get to that Albus Dumbledore link."

"Right, we completely sidetracked from it."

"'S all right," she muttered, guessing from the reaction of the detectives to the Malfoy name, as well as Draco's response to his father's sudden appearance on campus, that she should be glad for a reason to stay behind. "Any excuse to not be where your father is."

Rising from his seat, he groaned as his head fell forward a bit, so that he held her gaze, still. "I envy you."

"I know," Hermione said with a sweet smile.

She watched him leave, knowing better than to expect a kiss, despite sort-of cuddling in a public, if currently vacant, place. She'd pointedly ignored their physical interactions during their talk, she knew she had; she knew that neither of them had really considered the way they were acting, until after they'd stopped.

Until now, when he was walking away.

The realization jarred her a little. They were _not _getting emotional about each other; no, they couldn't be! Certainly she was the only one who noticed their behavior, she was positive of that.

The only one who regretted that he couldn't give her something as simple and innocent as a goodbye kiss before one of them left a room.

But then, at the door, Draco turned his head, looking over his shoulder at her. Something about the confused expression on his face, about the way his gaze swept over her, made her breath catch in her throat for just a second.

She didn't want to admit the flush of warmth she felt in her chest. Didn't want to think there was anything more to this. They had an agreement and if they felt something then . . . she forced a small gulp down her throat. She didn't want to deal with what they'd agreed to if their relationship became emotional.

Hermione pulled her gaze from his and looked to the floor. This was all in her head anyway, it _couldn't _be more. He couldn't possibly be as uncertain about what they were to each other as she was. So she didn't need to acknowledge her misgivings. If he brought this up—if it did, without question, become something more—well, they'd deal with it_ then._

"Why are you _every_where?" Harry's voice cut across the silent room, immediately drawing Hermione's attention right back to the doors.

There stood her best friend, glaring at her . . . well, at _Draco_.

Draco bit back a scathing retort, immediately recalling the secret Granger had shared about Potter's mother and father. He quickly recovered, however, remembering as well, that he'd promised her he'd act as though he didn't know any such thing.

At least the prat had good timing. To think, he'd almost been about to dart back across the library and steal a kiss from her before he _officially_ stormed off to another, likely unpleasant, visit with his father.

"There you go again, Potter, troubling yourself with the business of your betters."

Harry scowled, green eyes narrowing maliciously behind his glasses, but he only watched Malfoy walk out the door.

Once Hermione would have automatically mirrored Harry's aggravated expression, yet just now she found she had to remind herself to do so. Not because she found Malfoy's comment any less infuriating, but because she'd noticed his pause, noticed that, when once such a response would have been instantaneous, just now he'd had to think about it.

What she'd told him about Harry had affected him, yet he kept his word to her by pretending nothing had changed. She sighed and shook her head as Harry approached; she was in so much trouble when it came to Draco Malfoy.

"Mind telling me why you ran out like a mad woman earlier?"

In a flash, she recalled the moment to which he referred. "Oh, right." She put the napkin on the table. "Sorry, I just . . . thought they looked familiar, so I wanted to see if they actually meant anything."

Brow furrowing, he glanced over his shoulder to the exit. "Then what was he—?"

"How should I know? He was already here when I came in." At least the second half of what she said was true, Draco _had_ arrived at the library first.

Harry shook his head, sitting beside her as he picked up the napkin. "So, did they mean anything?"

Hermione held in another sigh. She _hated_ lying to Harry, but she didn't know where to begin with this, despite that blurting out absolutely everything was exactly what she wanted to do. And so many lies she's had to give Harry, recently. It didn't matter that her _lies_ were lies-by-omission; she felt no different than if she were speaking untruths to his face.

"No." She waved a dismissive hand toward the computer, adding so that her response wasn't a _complete _lie, "Searched as many internet databases as I could think of, couldn't find anything."

"Good." As quickly as he sat, he was up again, clamping a hand around her wrist to pull her from her seat. "Then you can leave the library. Bet you the building will _still _be here when you get back."

"What? But I—"

"You just admitted you're not working on your assignment right now and you ran off without eating a thing. Since I can't remember the last time I _saw_ you eat anything, I'm not letting you out of my sight 'til you do."

"Harry!"

"Shut it."

Looking forlornly back at the computer, she let him drag her through the door. Hermione refused to check from her mobile while with her friends; one glimpse over her shoulder could lead to questions for which she had no answer. She'd just have to look into that link on Albus Dumbledore later, in the privacy of her own room.

She thought if she focused enough for a moment, she might actually feel the burden of secrecy and lies press down on her like a physical weight. Harry clearly thought her loss of appetite was a result of Lavender's disappearance, and she couldn't tell him otherwise.

In an odd way, she wished that _was_ the truth.


	19. Numb and Silent

**I want to give a special, fic-specific shoutout to FF site member, FutureJKRowl. She contacted me, and asked if I would allow her to make French translations of The Scavengers to post to HarryPotterFanfiction. Of course, I was so absolutely flattered by this that I said yes. She will give me the links to the chapters once she begins posting so that I can share them on my profile page, for any readers fluent (or even just well-versed) in French, who might like to experience the story in that language. **

**Thank you, again, FutureJKRowl. You completely, _completely,_ made my month with your request.**

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

Numb and Silent

_She awoke with a start, dark eyes roving the dimly light ceiling above her._ _Forcing a sniffle, she swept her hair out of her face. Why was she crying? Perhaps she'd dreamed something sad._

_She pushed herself up, cringing at the tension in her arms. The skin still ached and tingled from the carvings._

_But then, she reflected as she stared blankly at the dull walls of her chamber, perhaps her tears were not because she'd dreamed something sad, but that _she_ was sad. Sad and lonely—the latter a feeling to which she was no longer accustomed._

_She had been secluded from the others for days. That was all part of the ceremony He had arranged, that she should be alone with her thoughts and meditations for one week before they were wed. Perhaps she had grown dependent upon the company of the others._

_That must be the reason, she thought fearfully as she moved her gaze to rest on the door. That was probably what angered Him so when she asked if she could leave for just a few moments._

_But fear of another sort gnawed at her. Everything was so still, so silent. She could not recall the last time she had heard footfalls echo through the corridor outside, or the last voice that called to her; aside from His, of course._

_The dreadful feeling that something terrible had happened coiled her stomach in knots, yet . . . . Would not her Lord have told her if such was the case?_

_Biting deep into her lip, she stood from the bed. The entirety of the building around her seemed so dreadfully quiet that the sound of her steps as she crossed the room raised goose bumps along her skin. Pressing her ear to the door, she held her breath as she listened. No noise whatsoever, not even after long, weighted moments of painful silence._

_She stepped back, merely staring at the door for a few seconds. Lids closing against frightened tears, she nodded to herself. Yes, she would risk His anger, but she had to know the others were all right._

_Opening the door, she poked her head into the corridor and looked about, once more straining to listen before setting foot out of her chamber._

_There came a soft clanging—metal against rock, she thought—from somewhere outside the church, but nothing _inside_ made a peep._

_Steeling her nerves, she crossed the corridor on hurried, silent bare feet. Each door she passed—doors to the others chambers—were closed, and she feared opening them, not that she was afraid of what she might find, but because she was afraid of finding _nothing_._

_The main body of the church opened out before her, as bare and quiet as the corridor and its painfully empty rooms, yet the clanging continued._

_Her watering eyes fixed on the door of the church. Nothing stood between her and it. Fear slammed into her again, telling her to turn around, to run back to her chamber and pretend she'd never left. Yet she needed to know where they were._

_And what on earth was that _sound_?_

_She did not want to know, she did_ not_. The pit of her stomach churned with how very wrong that sound made her feel. She pressed her hands to the sides of her head, the blood in her ears thunderously loud against the backdrop of intermittent silence as she approached the door._

_She paused, fingers clutching the handle. She needed to decide—now, or never. Whatever her choice, she couldn't be caught standing around out here. Their Lord had never raised a hand in violence to her, nor to any of them, and yet, every fiber of her being trembled at the thought of His anger. They all responded that way to His displeasure, yet now, as she thought on it—focusing on something _other_ than the mind-numbingly frightful sound of the door creaking open—she could discern no logical reason for their shared terror._

_They feared a punishment He never delivered; torments He never inflicted. It seemed they only feared the thought of disappointing Him, for no reason _other_ than that he would be disappointed._

_She stilled, her breath catching in her throat. What a terrible realization. Why? When and how had He come to exert such control over them? Holding in a sniffle as cold tears welled anew, she bit her lip._

_Why had they _let_ him?_

* * *

Hermione awoke ready to jump out of her skin, eyes snapping open to lock on the ceiling above her. She was in the basement of Gryffindor Hall, on the floor beside the walled-up chamber. As it turned out, she didn't have complete faith in her ability to get in touch with the bride's memories on her own, so she'd thought perhaps the knowledge of that altar being just on the other side of the wall might aid her.

She was only lucky that no one in Gryffindor felt much like using the gaming room as of late; not that she'd expected to have slept the entire night there, but the sunlight peeking in through the high, narrow windows told her she'd done exactly that. Truthfully, she'd spent most of the night pacing the room, listening for odd sounds—a few times she swore she heard a strange, guttural breathing behind her, but each time she spun to face it, she found nothing—and simply waiting to feel tired. If she had to guess, the sun had likely already been peeking over the horizon by the time she'd drifted off.

Sitting up slowly, she pressed a trembling hand over her heart. The quick, sharp thudding against her fingers was alarming. The bride's fear had been so real, so intense. She'd never felt anything like it.

The questions from the dream returned, nagging at the back of her mind. Why were they so frightened of Voldemort? Whatever the reason, their fear was obviously potent enough to linger. Even now that entity on the church grounds feared the very mention of his name.

Why _had_ they let him control them?

Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, she swept her gaze along the wall again. Tears of fright and confusion welled in her eyes. She still didn't understand. They'd practically worshiped him—why had he killed them?

She folded her arms around her body, hugging herself as her trembling slowly eased. God, did she wish Draco was here.

Cracking a half-grin, Hermione couldn't help laughing at herself. To think before this had all started, Draco Malfoy was the last person she'd want around her, yet now he was the first name her mind leaped to in a moment like this. Perhaps that made sense, though. She'd been next to him throughout so many of these discoveries, maybe wanting him near right now was only natural.

She wanted him here; to hold her until she stopped trembling entirely, and then . . . . And then maybe just a little longer.

Biting her lip once more, she shook her head as she stood. Now was as good a time as any to secure herself in her room and check out the information on this Albus Dumbledore figure.

Yes, solid information was good, and something she felt she needed. Possible facts were the thing that would stop her from thinking about her own useless wants.

Her mobile chimed as she reached the steps. Digging it from her pocket she looked at the caller ID before answering.

"Malfoy," she said, tamping down on a sudden—irritating—reflexive brightness in her tone as she set the mobile to her ear. "I was just—" No, no, she couldn't say she was just thinking about him; that sounded far too emotional.

She cleared her throat. "I was just about to call you," she lied unsteadily. "I'm not sure I found out anything new, but I tried what you said about using the dreams and—"

"Granger, shut up and listen."

Hermione frowned, her spine stiffening at his tone. "Well, aren't you a bundle of sunshine? I'm going to guess your more-sour-than-usual attitude is the result of your father's visit last night."

"Not his visit . . . what he told me. Meet me, now."

The uncharacteristic urgency in his voice worried her and she forced a gulp down her throat, a sudden sick chill twisting the pit of her stomach. "All right. Where?"

"The churchyard."

Her eyes drifted closed as she firmly reminded herself that she and the Bride were not the same person. Whatever had befallen the young, misguided nun had nothing, directly, to do with _her_. The fear she felt now thinking of the church grounds was not her own.

"Consider me there."

* * *

"I'm worried about Hermione," Harry said softly.

Ron's eyebrows drew together as he fought a yawn. He didn't reply—after all, what could he say in the wake of his bungled admission the other day—as they roamed the quiet corridors of Gryffindor Hall. Sunday afternoons were usually rather dull, but now that no one was in a mood for much of anything, this particular afternoon was downright dismal.

Remembering who he was speaking to, recalling Ron's complicated emotional connection to recent events, Harry rushed to elaborate. "I mean . . . it's not like I'm not still worried about Lavender, but there's nothing _we_ can do to help her. But Hermione, I just feel like she's not been herself, lately."

"Maybe she's just upset. You know, like we all are," Ron mumbled, his expression unusually bland and lifeless.

Harry did a double-take—albeit a slow one, given how drained he felt—when he glimpsed the redheaded young man's face. "Oy, you look like hell."

Ron locked eyes with his friend, ginger eyebrows inching up his forehead.

Shrugging, Harry said, "More than the rest of us, I mean. What gives?"

Answering Harry's shrug with one of his own, Ron turned to face him. "I just keep thinking that before she disappeared, Lavender and me . . . we were acting like we were back together. I mean, didn't it look like it?"

A frown graced Harry's lips as he thought over the last few times he'd seen Lavender and Ron together. He'd never have noticed had Ron not mentioned it, but now that he was considering it—it did seem like every time they were away from the group, they were off somewhere together, even if most of that alone-time was likely spent arguing—Ron was right.

"It did," Harry said, his voice low. "I'm sorry, I didn't notice. Were you?"

Ron shook his head, blinking hard. "No, no. But . . . I keep wondering, what if we had been?"

Harry's brows drew together. "I don't follow."

"I mean, if we were _together_, do you think she'd have told me? Like, if someone was bothering her, or something was troubling her?"

Heart clenching at the realization of what Ron was trying to say, Harry reached out, clamping his hands over his friend's shoulders. "I know what you're getting at Ron. I don't think the off-chance that you _might _have had some vague clue something was wrong if you'd gotten back with her would change anything that's happened. You can't beat yourself up about it, either. It won't help find Lavender."

Ron's gaze wasn't on Harry anymore, but up, tracing something behind his dark, unruly hair. His blank expression twisted into one of mild confusion.

"Ron?" Harry's eyebrows shot up over the rims of his glasses in question.

"Was that door always there?"

"What?" Turning on a heel, Harry saw a door behind him, the detailing of the wood slightly different from the dorm room doors.

"Um," he began, taking a step back so that he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Ron, "I've never been to the third floor before today, actually, but I'd have to think that yes, it's _always_ been here."

Ron furrowed his brow, grateful that Harry went along with the deliberate attempt to distract them, both, from more serious matters. "Janitor's closet, maybe?"

"No, that's the little cubbyhole off the kitchen."

"Wait," Ron cautioned suddenly as Harry reached for the knob. "What if that's someone's room?"

Casting a pointed glance at the other doors lining the corridor around the one he had his hand on, Harry shook his head. "It's not a dorm room."

Turning the knob, a grinding creak met their ears as he pulled the door open. Ron cringed, averting his gaze—convinced someone was about to come bounding out of the room, screaming at them, despite that the horrible metal whining sound was a sign of prolonged disuse—while Harry stepped up to peer inside.

"Huh," Harry said quietly, stepping back to pull the door open all the way so that Ron could see the darkened, cobweb-wreathed steps and ignoring the sudden biting chill that swam in the pit of his stomach. He felt oddly determined to walk up this staircase, regardless of the numbness flooding his fingers, telling him to run from this room; to slam the door and forget it existed. "Do you think anyone knows Gryffindor Hall has an attic?"


	20. Unpleasant Truths

**Chapter Twenty**

Unpleasant Truths

Draco paced restlessly beside the crumbled fence of the old cemetery, his hands clenching into fists and unclenching again, and again. He had no idea how to say this to Granger . . . not a clue how she was going to take it.

He shook his head. She was strong, maybe she'd be all right. Then again, maybe she'd collapse on the spot, and need him to hold her up, who knew?

After all, he had no idea how to take this disturbing bit of news, himself. Perhaps when he shared the information with her—when he at least heard the words aloud, in his own voice—he'd be able to form some response. Simply pondering how very connected they'd become to whatever was happening set off an unpleasant, twisting chill in the pit of his stomach.

The only thing he was positive on was that they were going to have to move quickly to figure this all out, now. He had the unshakable certainty in his very core that this meant she was more danger than either of them had previously thought. If they could prove _any_ of it, that would be one thing—they'd be able to tell someone, anyone, they'd be able to seek help or protection. But this?

Everything they knew bordered on speculative, whimsical nonsense, and yet . . . yet everything they'd experienced had _really_ happened. Everything they'd learned proved—eventually—true.

He had a feeling, though, a dreadful inclination of where they could turn next for answers, and she wasn't going to like it.

Not one little bit.

"Hey, I'm here!"

He gave a start at hearing Granger's voice behind him. Damn, he'd been so caught up in his thoughts he'd not even noticed her approach.

Draco whirled on his heel to face her, intent on coming right out with it. Quick, like tearing off a band-aid. However, as he looked down into her face, into the wide, chestnut eyes blinking up at him, he simply couldn't.

Hermione arched a brow. He'd asked her to meet him, and now he just stood there, gaping at her with his jaw hanging open? "Malfoy?"

He pulled himself to stand straighter as he closed his mouth and cleared his throat. "Hmm?"

Tilting her head, she gave him a mystified expression. "You called me here; made it sound like there was something very important you needed to tell me."

Draco nodded, glancing around. "Perhaps I should've asked you to meet me somewhere that you could sit down."

Brow furrowing, she looked down before gesturing to the grass on which they stood.

"Oh, right, of course," he said as he sank to sit cross-legged on the ground.

"This must really be something," Hermione whispered, a chilled uncertainty threading her voice as she sat down facing him. "You're acting very strange—even for you—skittish, almost."

Once more nodding, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, unwilling to meet her gaze. "When you hear what my father told me, you'll get why."

Offering a nod of her own, she squared her shoulders. "All right, out with it, then."

"You have to understand, it's something _I_ shouldn't know. The only reason Father told me was because my friends got it in his head that I'm _involved_ with a Gryffindor girl."

"You _are _involved with a Gryffindor girl."

He scowled. "Yes, but they don't _actually_ know that, now do they? They were being snarky and he took them seriously." He shook his head and finally lifted his gaze to hers. Eyes narrowing, he reached out to take hold of her wrist, ensuring that she was paying him her full attention. "That's not the point. Listen, what I'm about to tell you, you have to _promise _me you won't say a word."

Her heart dropped into her stomach. She'd never heard his tone so serious before. "I—I promise."

"They're waiting 'til they have something more concrete before they tell the public anything, but Father's had his nose in the investigation ever since those idiots questioned me."

She shrank back, her shoulders pulling in toward her body, though she made no attempt to remove his hand from her wrist. "Why do I have a bad feeling about whatever you're going to tell me?"

Grey eyes drifted closed and he bit his lip for a long moment before he finally said, "They've got a lead on your friend Lavender."

Relief washed through her. "They did? Oh, thank God. Why the big—"

"Granger!" He deliberately cut her off, shaking his head. "It's _not_ good. They found something in the footage from the surveillance camera by the main gate. Just a quick glimpse." Draco frowned, shaking his head, hating the way his next words would sound, yet given his father's description, he could think of nothing more fitting. "Like a ghost in the dark, there and then _gone_, but long enough to get a look at his face."

As quickly as it came, that blessed sense of relief tore out of her, leaving a cold, rippling dread in its wake. A shuddering gasp escaped her lips as her jaw dropped. "_His _face?"

"The man who took her."

Hermione leaned closer, turning her hand so that she clasped his wrist the way he did hers, and shook his arm. "If they've seen who took her, if they know for sure that she was kidnapped, how is that not good?"

"Because of who he is and how they learned it." He lowered his voice to a whisper, despite that even the roving security officer strolling a few meters away likely wasn't close enough to hear. ""They didn't match him to a name from some database, or something. My father recognized him, he was the one who put a name to the face. He was a classmate of my father's . . . and Snape's."

She realized exactly what he was getting at, remembered clearly their discovery about Snape's time as a student. "A classmate of Riddle's."

Draco forced a short, mirthless chuckle. "Turns out that's why Father doesn't talk about the year the murders happened. He feels like he should have realized something wasn't right with Riddle; that maybe if he had, I don't know, things might've turned out different."

"Just like we thought Snape might feel. Well . . . ." She shrugged, averting her gaze for a second. "When we didn't think he might be the copycat. So this man on the footage, _he's_ the one, right?"

"Logic would dictate. But that's exactly the problem. His name is Barty Crouch, Jr."

Frowning thoughtfully, she said, "Wait, wait. Barty Crouch is a member of Parliament."

His face fell—honestly, for the brightest girl in their year, she could certainly be thick, sometimes. "That'd be where the _junior_ part comes in."

Hermione's expression soured. "No, I mean that _according_ to Crouch's official biography, he doesn't have a son."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "My God, woman, you're like a walking internet search engine," he said with a chuckle. "How could you possibly know that off the top of your head?"

"Research for a paper back in secondary." She shook her head, her brow furrowing. "Had no idea he had a son, at all."

"That's probably because Crouch didn't want anyone to know about sonny-boy. At least not since getting into politics." Her eyebrows shot up, but he hurried on before she could ask why. "That's what I'm getting at. If my father hadn't bullied his way into the room and seen that face, this _would _have been circulated to the public, for perhaps half a second, before it got hushed up and swept under a rug. Crouch doesn't acknowledge that he had a son, because our darling Junior vanished without a trace . . . eighteen years ago."

Her shoulders slumped as all sensation drained from her extremities, her arm slipping from his hand "Eighteen years ago," she echoed in a murmur.

"Right after Riddle was killed. Father recalled that Riddle and Crouch were close. Of course, he only knew that because he and Snape ran in the same social circles as Riddle, only not like Crouch. From what I was told, one would've thought Crouch worshiped Riddle—along several other classmates, but not to the same extent. If Riddle had a second, it would've been him."

"I am going to guess that by _several, _you mean eleven? Making Crouch the number twelve we've been missing?"

"Exactly. He was a bit of an egotist, Riddle, which was probably why he chose to sacrifice people outside of his followers. He wanted whatever Voldemort was after, but also wanted to keep close—and _alive_—those who placed him on a pedestal. It's logical to assume that Crouch was helping Riddle, which is probably why his father never speaks of him. I mean, would you?"

She gave a slow, numb shake of her head.

"They can't simply go find him, because _no one_ has seen or heard from this man in eighteen years. He was probably thought to have committed suicide, like the others, only unlike them, he'd simply done it someplace the body was never found. There's no record of anything on him."

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it again, once, twice, her lower lip trembling and the tip of her nose stinging. "So, he just . . . disappears, no one knows where, and now he drifts back into existence, kills some poor person—in a manner befitting Riddle's M O—and waltzes in here and snatches Lavender away? Her aunt was one of Riddle's victims; that can't be a coincidence."

"I don't think it is."

Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to blink, refused to let even one slip free. "But then what about the copycat killing? The rest of us are _all_ here, so what was that, a practice kill?"

"It's gruesome to think it, but probably."

She couldn't breathe. For a terrible moment she felt as though an icy hand gripped around her heart. "He's going to kill Lavender. No one knows how to find this man, and there's nothing _we_ can do, and he's got her, and . . . ." Her gaze roamed aimlessly, as though she feared looking in any single direction too long as she forced herself to inhale. "Oh, oh God. What if she's already dead?"

He watched her frantic glancing, watched her lids finally drift closed, sending droplets to roll down her cheeks. Jaw setting, he looked away. He barely knew Lavender Brown from Eve, but even he was aware of the complicated history between the two girls; it had probably taken a lot of effort to become friends. He knew he couldn't understand her feelings, he barely liked his own friends.

"Do you . . . need a hug, or something?"

"No," she whispered, the small word barely comprehensible through the tightness in her throat.

"Are you sure?"

Hermione sniffled, opening her watery eyes to meet his gaze. "No," she said again.

His shoulders drooped. "All right." He opened his arms, but turned his face away and shook his head. "Come here."

With another sniffle, she nodded. Crawling into his lap, she dropped her head against the side of his neck, her fingers gripping into his shirtfront.

"No one is _ever_ to hear about this," he said, forcing himself to sound annoyed even as he folded his arms around her and began rubbing the small of her back with a gentle hand.

"Won't tell a soul."

* * *

"What do you suppose all this is?" Ron asked as he blew a layer of dust from atop a filing cabinet.

Harry coughed, waving a hand in front of his face before shooting Ron a dirty look.

" . . . Sorry."

Clearing his throat, Harry leaned down to read one of the labels. "Don't know. There's nothing written here." Frowning, he glanced at the other two, one on other side of the cabinet he was inspecting.

Shrugging, he pulled one open and thumbed through some of the files. "Huh, old school papers, doesn't seem like much. Minutes from faculty meetings, university function schedules, looks like."

"No wonder they stuck it out of the way, useless rubbish. God forbid they learn how to recycle."

Harry chuckled, but the sound died on his lips as the sensation of stroking, icy fingertips trailed over his hand. A startled gasp escaped him, but the touch remained, pressing against his skin, forcing his hand to the handle of another drawer.

Ron watched his friend's expression change, unsettled by the way Harry's eyes widened and his posture stiffened. "You all right?" He asked quietly as Harry's arm moved lower on the cabinet with odd, disjointed motions, as though he wasn't moving the limb himself.

"Peachy," Harry said, deadpan, despite feeling the warmth drain from his face.

The moment he gripped the handle, the icy fingers slid away and he had to will himself not to turn and look around. Ron's lack of reaction made it obvious that he wouldn't find anyone—or any_thing—_there.

He tugged open the drawer and flicked through the files. "Floor plans?"

Ron's ginger brows drew together. "For what?"

Harry shook his head as he pulled the files out and set them atop the cabinet. "Looks like for the residence halls." He flipped through scanning each image, looking for . . . anything that would catch his attention; anything that might explain why whatever specter had been present a moment earlier had wanted him to open _that_ drawer. "Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin," he flipped it over with the first two, shaking his head as he picked up the last plan, "Hermione said the inside was just like Gryffindor. Huh, that's weird. Why are there two for Saxon?"

Ron cleared his throat awkwardly as he reached for the first _Saxon_ sheet and turned it over. "Because _this_ one is Gryffindor?"

"That can't be right," Harry said, a mystified expression creeping across his features as he looked up. "There's a basement store room, and we don't have one."

With a shrug, Ron pushed the paper closer and tapped the name along the side. "Says it right here."

Scowling, Harry placed the two sets of plans beside one another. A chill rippled in the pit of his stomach. According to the papers in front of him, there _was_ a room behind the basement wall, right where Slytherin had one, just as Hermione'd said. . . . Right where she told him she'd heard someone _knocking_.

"And I didn't believe her," he whispered, angry with himself.

Restless suddenly, Ron wandered what little space there was in the dusty, box-and-cabinet stuffed room. "Didn't believe who?"

"Hermione, she told me there was something there."

Chuckling, Ron looked through the window. The musty air of the attic made him wish they were outdoors, in the sunshine. "Of course she did; girl knows everything, remember? Oh, bloody hell, haven't they finished that thing, yet?"

Harry's attention remained on the floor plans as he kicked himself for not listening to her. Really, now that he thought on it, it had been since then that she'd seemed off, hadn't it? "What are you talking about?"

"Hermione and Malfoy with that assignment for Snape."

"I thought they finished it yesterday." At last putting down the plans, Harry continued as he moved to join Ron by the window. "They can't still be obsessing over one stupid psych paper."

Eyebrows shooting up into his hair as he watched Hermione crawl into Malfoy's lap, Ron said in a lifeless tone, "On second thought, maybe it's got nothing to do with school."

Harry felt as though his heart stopped. The pair was a fair distance away, but Malfoy's pale hair against his usual dark clothing was instantly recognizable, and Harry would know Hermione anywhere. Her head dropped down against his throat, and his arms—_Malfoy's_ arms—wound around her.

As his hands curled into fists so tight that his bitten-down nails pierced his palms, Harry saw red.

* * *

"Well, this can't be good," Malfoy's voice in Hermione's ear gave her a start and she turned her head, following his gaze to see Harry bolting toward them, a cringing Ron close at his heels.

"Harry, wait," she yelled, "this isn't—"

"You should probably move," Draco said, but before she could respond, he pushed her out of his lap and got to his feet.

The moment Hermione stood, she heard the sickening crunch of a fist against flesh and bone, barely spotting Harry's swing out of the corner of her eye.

Malfoy staggered back a few steps, but didn't fall, instead cupping his jaw with his hand as he stared daggers at Harry. "Oh, you _really_ want to do this, Potter?"

Harry lowered his head, meeting Malfoy's gaze with a lethal glare. "I've been waiting years for a reason."

As soon as the last word left his lips, Draco swung underhanded, catching Harry hard in his stomach.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed as Harry doubled over, reflexively starting toward him, but Ron grabbed her by the elbows.

"I'm thinking maybe you should keep a safe distance."

Spitting out red, Draco said in a low hiss, "Maybe I should've warned you Malfoys fight dirty."

Hermione pulled out of Ron's grip and whirled to stare up at him. "This was _not_ what it looked like! Why didn't you stop him?"

Ron's expression pinched in disbelief. "Me, stop him? If three flights of stairs, two doors, and running the length of the quad didn't diffuse him, what makes you think I could?" He took a step closer, peering into her face. "Have you been crying?"

She nodded, but before she could voice a reply, Harry forced himself upright and glanced over his shoulder at her.

"Yes," she said to Harry, despite that Ron was the one to raise the question. "I was crying. _That's_ what you saw."

"Why are you crying?" Immediately whipping his head around to lock eyes with Malfoy, he asked, "Why is she crying? What did _you_ do?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Draco muttered, grey eyes rolling as he threw up his hands.

"_He _has nothing to do with why I'm upset."

Knowing that she'd been crying, that Malfoy—of all people—had been the one comforting her ripped Harry's anger from him; though he wanted, desperately, to cling to it. He turned toward her, his gaze searching her face. "What's going on Hermione?"

She looked past him to Draco. The unpleasant notion that Harry would learn of everything she'd told Draco was suddenly unimportant. "Maybe we should tell them. After all, he did draw the symbols."

"Symbols?" Harry echoed, as he glanced back at Malfoy.

Draco avoided Harry's gaze as he offered a reluctant nod. He really didn't like the idea of dragging anyone else—even if that anyone was just Potter, and his apparently mean right hook—into this madness, but then perhaps that would help keep Granger safe. Because . . . he'd taken her into that stupid room in the first place. Yes, he'd be responsible if something happened to her, that was _all_.

"Maybe we should all sit down," she said, her voice still creaky from sobbing. "There's a lot to tell, some of it you probably won't believe."

"And _none_ of it's good," Draco tacked on, his tone grim as he dropped back down on the grass, pretending his jaw wasn't throbbing.


	21. Troublesome Understandings

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

Troublesome Understandings

Harry rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. His head ached from all the horrific, mind-numbing madness Hermione and Malfoy had just forced his brain to process. He was also angry with her for sharing the truth about his parents with a selfish, callous prat like Draco Malfoy, but he grasped—albeit it with unhappy reluctance—that what was happening, and what they were going through, was bigger than the secret of his past. Angry with her, probably to the same degree, for feeling she couldn't tell him all this when it started. But at least for _that_, he couldn't really blame her. Some of it sounded absolutely psychotic, but he still wanted to think she would confide in him, no matter how loony she sounded.

He'd wait 'til he was positive Hermione was out of danger, and _then_ he'd yell at her.

Ron, for his part, looked a tinge green. Harry thought it would be surprising if his friend_ wasn't _nauseated by the revelations of their families connections to Riddle's legacy, or that this so-called close friend of Riddle's—who no one knew was even alive for the last eighteen years—had snatched Lavender away, like a ghost in the night. That knowing who took her somehow made the chance of finding her slimmer was both chilling, and sickening, all on its own.

Hermione was in danger, because of some creepy blood rite from the past that they didn't fully understand, and Lavender was taken by a man who might as well not exist, and who might end her life the way Riddle and this Voldemort character had ended lives. Twenty-four in all, _twenty-four_ lives they had taken, between them; thirty-five if one counted the suicides of Riddle's followers, which he didn't. The whole mess turned Harry's stomach. Oh, _and_ he had to deal with Malfoy.

If there were any possible way for things to get worse, he couldn't imagine what that might be.

And he wasn't entirely certain how he and Ron were both swallowing all the paranormal weirdness that permeated Hermione and Malfoy's story; believing every bit so easily. But then . . . perhaps that was just an effect of the environment of the Rowling University grounds. The faculty and student body seemed to accept this sort of activity as a fact of life, making him think maybe that acceptance was such an ingrained facet of existence here that none of them noticed when they started sharing it.

"So," Ron said, swallowing a lump in his throat and snapping Harry back into the moment, "you have pictures of the room hidden in Gryffindor?"

Hermione exchanged a glance with Draco as she dug her mobile from her pocket and scrolled through the pictures. She was acutely aware of Harry's notice when she'd looked at Malfoy; she couldn't help it. Hopefully he read no more into it than that they'd built the sort of confidence which came part-and-parcel with sharing this sort of burden. After all, that assumption would be partly the truth of her relationship with Draco Malfoy.

Whatever that relationship _was_—she wasn't even certain she and Malfoy knew.

"I wasn't going to show these to you. I wasn't going to show this to _anyone_, I was afraid no one would believe us." She held the mobile out to Harry.

Wrapping her arms around her knees, she merely watched their faces as Harry scrolled through the images. Their eyes grew wider, their jaws fell slack, and she forced a nod. After a few moments, she pushed up to stand, the gazes of all three young men on her, suddenly.

"C'mon. We'll show you the bricked up window, where I took those."

Draco arched a brow. "We will?"

Hermione graced him with a menacing scowl.

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy shrugged and got to his feet. "Fine, yes. We'll show you the stupid, bloody window."

Harry sank his teeth into his bottom lip, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he watched them. Draco Malfoy was doing what Hermione Granger told him to? He dearly hoped that had something to do with threats and violence. Imagining Hermione beating up Malfoy brought Harry a strange, visceral sort of joy. He stood, as well, waiting for Ron—who moved like a man carrying the weight of the world upon his weary shoulders—before handing back Hermione's mobile and trooping after the unlikely . . . pair. He refused to give himself any reason to attach to them the word _couple_.

"So tell me _again_ why haven't you told everyone about this?" Harry's voice was low, his gaze flicking about as they headed toward Gryffindor Hall.

She shrugged, focusing on their destination. "Aside from you two, who we now know shared that spectacularly awkward dream, and Luna, who believes anything spooky, who d'you think would honestly believe us? We have a creepy room with creepy symbols in it that match creepy symbols carved into the gravestones that have been here for centuries, and that's_ it_ as far as tangible evidence goes. There's no way to prove any of it is connected to Riddle, or that mad priest. No way to prove _any_ of our story. To anyone on the outside looking in, it'll appear we're just sticking our noses where they don't belong, and letting our imaginations run away with us for our efforts." She paused, meeting Harry's gaze over her shoulder. "I know what you're thinking Harry. We thought about coming and telling you. All of you; quite a few times, actually."

Draco halted beside her, but didn't turn. "And _every _time, it sounded madder than the time before. I've never been sure my friends really _are_ my friends. You lot might hear Granger out, but my friends? They'd be just as likely to commit us somewhere, as they would to listen."

"Yeah, we might've thought you were both barking, but you still should've tried," Ron said, his voice thick, though he refused to lift his face. "Blood of the Twelve, and for Riddle, those twelve were members of our families. Someone in your family was going to be his next victim, Hermione. Harry's mum saved someone important to you, and it's like you don't even care. You should have tried!"

The hurt and anger in his voice stung Hermione and she forced a gulp as her chestnut eyes watered. She blinked the tears away, grimacing as she spoke. "Oh, shut up, Ron. What do you want? You want me to be sorry that Riddle _didn't_ kill someone in my family? Tell me you're joking! If that's how you feel, then maybe you're the one who's barking."

Ron was silent, unable to hold her gaze. When she spit his own thoughts back at him, it_ did _sound mad—mad and completely selfish that he should be angry with her for _not_ having lost someone to Riddle; as if such a thing was her fault, somehow.

Hermione thundered on, "You have no idea what this has been like! We've barely slept in over two weeks, we've hardly eaten; we_ did_ think we were going mad. So, until you have been in our place, I'll thank you to keep your judgments on what we _should _have done to yourself."

Hermione turned her head so fast her hair fanned out, the ends coming within centimeters of slapping Harry and Draco, as she stomped onward.

Draco finally looked at them, exchanging a grudging look with Harry before he shook his head, his narrowed grey eyes moving to Ron. "I can't believe she dated you," he said in a mystified murmur as her followed her.

Harry let out a sigh and grabbed Ron by the elbow when the ginger-haired young man seemed reluctant to budge. "C'mon."

As they neared the residence hall, Hermione slowed, once more pulling up the images on her mobile, to explain to Harry and Ron which wall was which.

"Wait a minute," Harry asked as they rounded the corner of the building. "Why do the symbols on the ceiling look different?"

Furrowing her brow, she looked at the picture. "We're not sure. If I had to guess, though, I'd say maybe they're part of Voldemort's sacrifices. You know you hear about circles and wards and things being 'cast' when it comes to rituals and magic."

"Either Riddle found the actual rite Voldemort created," Draco chimed in, "or Riddle, himself, came up with his own, based on whatever he knew about Voldemort."

Hermione shrugged, voicing something that hadn't occurred to either of them. "Maybe one of Riddle's followers, or all of them—at least the ones who committed suicide. They didn't kill themselves right away, they waited a few months. Perhaps this was why they didn't off themselves the moment Riddle's death was made public."

Draco's brows drew together. "Like some sort of tribute to their fallen leader?"

"Exactly. Whatever the case, unless we can get inside that church and find something that actually links Voldemort to the symbols on the ceiling, we might never know what this is."

"Oh, right!" Draco said, snapping his fingers. "With you know, you breaking down, Potter punching me, Weaselbee's little hissy-fit just now, and all that, I forgot to mention we might be able to, soon."

Hermione was so relieved at anything which felt like progress, that the tense set of her shoulders eased, and she almost laughed. "Really?"

"Heard it from my father. Now that they know who took her, and assuming no one in Rowling is involved, the investigation is going to move off school grounds." He shrugged. "The campus will probably still have more security than it used to, but not so much on the police presence."

"Oh, good."

"You two realize I'm not going to let you go alone, right?" Harry scowled at Hermione—clearly she hadn't realized that she was talking to Malfoy as though he and Ron weren't there. He fought a frown; used to be that he was the only one she chatted with, like that.

She started, breaking into a surprised grin, and her eyes brightening. "Harry, that's a wonderful idea! Three of us will be able to search faster."

"Four," Harry said, nodding at Ron.

When Ron didn't say anything, Harry nudged his friend in the ribs.

"Right . . . four," Ron responded, though he still didn't lift his gaze from the grass beneath their feet.

Hermione's grin widened, though she resisted the urge to reach out and squeeze his hand. Ron was reluctant, and a pain in the arse, and quite an arse, himself, from time-to-time, but he wasn't the type who could be forced into something he didn't want to do. He wanted to help them, even if he didn't want it to show. But she understood he was also extremely fragile, right now, and she didn't want him to read too much into a friendly gesture.

That, and she had no idea how she felt about Draco seeing said friendly gesture, or what he might read into it.

"All right, we won't go without you."

Scowling, Malfoy took a step closer to the other young men and dropped his voice to a lethal whisper. "But if you get us caught, so help me, I will make your lives a living hell."

Ron lifted his face, his expression tight.

Harry frowned, shaking his head. "Sod off, Malfoy."

Draco granted him a vicious smirk. "Just giving you fair warning."

"You know, for a few moments there, I actually thought you weren't a foul git. If it weren't for Hermione—"

"Boys," Hermione said, stamping her foot. "Enough!"

"Geez, Hermione," Ron said, stuffing his fists into his pockets. "We're not children."

"Hmph, then stop acting like children." She pivoted on a heel and took a few steps, before halting again, her gaze darting about. "Oh, no."

"What?" Draco's voice was in her ear suddenly, but she didn't dare look up at him. She didn't need to, she could feel the warmth of him against her back as he moved close to look over her shoulder.

Shaking her head, and walking to the window—as much to point out the rectangle, as to put space between her body and Malfoy's, what with Harry and Ron close enough see it if she reacted to his nearness— she waved a hand toward the bricked up window. "Somebody's replaced the brick."

Draco's mouth fell open, but the way his jaw worked, she thought maybe he was trying to come up with something to say.

"So?" Harry asked, as he knelt in front of the section Hermione had indicated. "Maybe one of the custodians just noticed the brick on the ground and replaced it."

Hermione forced a gulp and knelt beside him, running her fingers along the bricks. She couldn't recall which one should be missing, but as she trailed her fingers along them, she pressed. The loose brick scraped against the others as it moved.

"It's not set. A custodian would have set it with cement, wouldn't he?" She glanced back at Draco, and then to Ron, before meeting Harry's gaze. "It's the same brick I pushed out, I'm _certain _of it."

"Okay, so, not a custodian, maybe just someone—"

"You don't get it, Potter." Draco gritted his teeth—he knew better than to argue with Granger when she was dead-positive on something, why didn't her friends? "That _exact _brick should not be there, because it fell _inside_ that room."

Harry's face fell, his eyes huge behind his glasses. He looked to Ron, oddly relieved that his friend shared his bewildered expression as he managed a single word that spoke volumes. "Oh."


	22. Just Underneath

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Just Underneath

Hermione stood at the foot of Gryffindor Hall's basement steps later that night, listening for any sounds from upstairs. Not an easy task when balancing the static-nothingness from the upper levels with the squabbling of the three young men as they attempted to locate the seams on the wall panels.

"Like _you'd_ know anything," Harry spat the words, running his fingers along the lines in the polished surface of manufactured wood. "You've never done manual labor a day in your life."

"I'll have you know putting effort into crushing your spirit every school year since we met is quite a laborious activity," Malfoy said, shaking his head as he examined the section of wall directly over the hidden passageway.

"Good to know some aspect of your pampered existence has proven as _actual_ work."

Hermione could tell Draco was smirking by the tone of his voice as he said, "What can I tell you? Some rewards are worth a little discomfort."

Pivoting on a heel to look at three—Ron sat cross-legged on the floor a meter away from them, examining the Gryffindor and Slytherin floor plans for the umpteenth time—she found Draco glancing over his shoulder at her. He sank his teeth into his bottom lip as she held his gaze. She realized with an unpleasant jolt that the responding warmth flooding her cheeks from his stare would be too obvious, should Ron or Harry look over at her.

Dropping her attention to the floor as she collected herself, she shielded her face with her hands, pretending she was covering a long yawn. So . . . she was a reward he considered worth suffering discomfort to have? Hermione smiled inwardly—she'd have to remember that the next time they were alone.

If they ever managed alone-time again, that was. She had a nagging feeling, though, that Harry wouldn't let them out of his sight, if he could help it.

Dropping her hands, she gave a long stretch for show. "There's not a peep from upstairs. I think everyone's finally asleep."

"I should hope so," Ron said, swallowing an actual yawn—Hermione hadn't slept properly in so long, she'd forgotten what being simply, genuinely sleepy felt like, and she found herself envying him—as he checked his watch. "Classes in the morning, and it's nearly 2 AM. _We_ should be sleeping."

"Blame Potter," Draco grumbled as he eyed the line where the wall met the ceiling. "This was his brilliant idea."

"Someone on campus might be helping Crouch. Revealing the corridor so whoever is using that room will be thrown off his game and maybe slip up? It _is_ a brilliant idea," Hermione said, which received two very different reactions.

Harry beamed, giving Malfoy a smug grin, while Malfoy granted her a sour expression.

She flashed Harry and encouraging smile. Only when he turned his attention back to the paneling did she look to Draco, offering him a shrug as she mouthed an apology.

Draco shook his head, his eyes rolling. "It's only a brilliant idea if it works," he said smoothly.

"And you have a better suggestion?"

Malfoy's eyes lit up as his fingers trailed over one of the lines in the smooth, gleaming surface again, and again. "Give me the tools."

Hermione retrieved the hammer and flathead screwdriver from the bench nearest Ron and brought them to Draco.

Harry snorted a chuckle. "Sure you can manage?"

"Shut it, Potter," Draco muttered as he jabbed the point of the screwdriver against the seam. "And it just so happens I _do_ have an idea."

"Oh?" Hermione asked, stepping between the two bickering young men.

Meeting her gaze for a second before knocking the hammer against the back of the screwdriver—they all cringed at the sound of the pressed wood creaking and whining in protest—he answered as he wedged the tool beneath the panel. "Yes. We have a little chat with Professor Snape."

All three Gryffindor residents regarded him as though he'd begun spouting an alien language.

Hermione was the only one he bothered to look at as he explained further. "He's got to know _something_. We've already suspected it. We should confront him outright; tell him we know he actually knew Riddle, _and_ Crouch's son, and see what he has to say."

Harry appeared unimpressed. "So, what we just do nothing 'til after classes tomorrow and hope we catch him at his office? Who's to say he'll even tell us the truth?"

"Trust me, that man has plenty of tells. If he's hiding something, we might not find out what it is, but we will know he's not being honest."

Ron spoke up, but went back to looking over the papers spread out on the floor before him, "He's actually right."

Eyes wide, Hermione, Harry and Draco exchanged surprised glances. Ron was the last person on the planet anyone would expect to support an idea from the mouth of Draco Malfoy. Aside from Harry, of course, but then even Harry had grudgingly admitted a few times that Malfoy was an unfortunately intelligent bastard.

"But we still have to open the room, first," Ron said. "Open the room tonight, talk to Snape tomorrow. No one's come down here since Lavender disappeared; no one's had the heart to play games. Feels too disrespectful . . . ." He forced a gulp down his throat and shook his head, his messy, ginger hair swaying. "Anyway, no one's going to notice this for a few days, at least. _Except_ the person using the room, right? Which is what we want. If it's Snape, he'll already be acting off, because he'll think someone's onto him."

Against her better judgment, Hermione stepped over to Ron and sank down beside him, placing a comforting arm around his shoulders.

"I tell you what though, Hermione," Ron's voice was thick as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. "If Snape is involved, if he did help the guy who took her, I'll _kill _him."

She only nodded, worry tightening her expression. The conviction in his tone just then was unlike anything Hermione'd ever heard from Ron in all the years they'd been friends. She shifted her attention to Draco and Harry.

"C'mon then," Harry urged, reminding Malfoy that they'd all been distracted from the task at hand.

Malfoy cleared his throat, shaking his head as he turned back. "Right." He struck the screwdriver a few more times, working along the seam, from as close as he could get to the ceiling, down to the floor.

He handed the tools across to Harry and slid his fingers beneath the panel.

Harry repeated the process on the other side and Hermione fidgeted, bouncing to her feet. She returned to the bottom of the stairs, listening again. This was taking so long . . . it'd be easier to simply have both of them grab the panel from Draco's side and wrench it free. She understood their caution, though—understood the deliberate, careful process—just yanking the section loose might cause enough noise to wake someone.

But understanding didn't make her any less tense about how much time had passed, already.

"Got it."

She turned at Harry's voice to see him and Draco gently pry loose the section. They wedged the panel behind the Gryffindor display case, revealing an expanse of rough wood that Hermione remembered seeing from the other side. There was a few centimeters of space between the wall and the rest of the paneling, allowing room for the covering of the corridor.

Draco frowned, shaking his head as he watched Harry jam the screwdriver beneath nails holding the wide, wood plank in place and work them loose. "I swear, this school's construction is so shoddy. If those people worked for me, they'd be _so_ fired."

Hermione stifled a giggle at the unhappy grimace Ron gave Malfoy behind his back.

"Just shut up and do your part," Harry said, irritated as he handed back the tools.

Shaking her head, Hermione ventured up the steps. As much to work off a little of her nervous energy, as to reassure herself that no one was stirring upstairs. The moment she set foot on the first floor she felt better. Close as she was, she could barely hear what little noise they made working down there.

She turned back, a spike of icy fear lancing through her as she faced the stairs. Gasping, she managed a shudder and reached out, bracing her hands against the wall for support. Eyes watering, she looked over her shoulder, the feeling of being watched raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

"Nothing," she whispered, catching her breath. "There's_ nothing _there, Hermione."

The first thought to strike her was that perhaps the unsettling sensation was connected with what they were doing. Something didn't _want_ them to uncover that room. Swallowing hard, she nodded and darted back down the staircase.

As her feet hit the carpet, she looked over to see Harry and Draco force the plank free of the wall. Ron, standing now, caught piece of wood and eased it to the floor.

"Funny," she said softly, her voice wavering as she came to stand with them, staring into the darkened corridor. "I just had the most terrible feeling that we shouldn't have done this."

"Bit late for that, Hermione." Harry's voice was toneless as he blindly fished his mobile from his pocket—his gaze locked on the blackness before them—and flicked on the light, to shine it toward the room.

Draco pushed Harry's hand down, lowering the light. "I think Granger's right. I just got the same feeling."

Biting hard into his bottom lip, Harry glanced at Hermione before meeting Malfoy's gaze. "You're kidding, right? All the trouble we just went through to open it? I want to see the room for myself."

Ron busied himself with rolling up the floor plans as he said, "I, um . . . I think they're right, Harry. I mean, maybe we should just be grateful whoever's using the room wasn't in there just now. We don't know who it is, we don't know what they're capable of." He turned toward Harry, searching his friend's face. "We don't know if it's actually just one person using that room; remember that's only a guess. It could be two people, or _twenty_, for all we know. You could get hurt."

"I'm not planning on camping out in there, I just want to see the place. And the only other entrance is a big, creaky door, right? We'll hear it as soon as anyone tries to come in."

Hermione caught Harry's empty hand in hers, drawing his attention to her. "Harry, please."

"I just want to see it," he said slowly, clasping tight to her fingers and starting down the corridor.

Draco's arm twitched—fighting an almost instinctive reaction to grab Granger's arm and pull her back, out into the light, where he knew she was safe. He bit the inside of his cheek, angry with himself for feeling that way, instead taking out his own mobile and turning on the light to follow them.

Ron shook his head, scowling as he trailed after them. "We're all going to die."

Even in the darkness, he could feel Hermione's unhappy gaze land on him.

They filed into the chamber, one after the other, and Harry shined his light, touching each wall, and then the ceiling.

Draco angled his beam toward the altar, and then made a calculated guess, scanning the walls for the sealed window.

In the darkness, Hermione reached out, gingerly slipping her free hand into Draco's. She braced herself, expecting him to shake off her touch, but he interlaced his fingers with hers and gave a gentle squeeze.

"Let's go now, Harry, please."

"I don't think anyone's coming, Hermione."

She used her hand on his to turn him toward her, though she was barely able to make out his features in the gloom. "I don't care. Please, Harry! We have all been through the wringer today, and I don't think any of us can handle much more tonight, please."

"Okay," Harry said softly, glancing around as he made a second sweep with his light. "You're right, we should all get some sleep."

Draco once more squeezed Hermione's hand and then let her go as they all, through unspoken mutual agreement, backed out of the room, and down the corridor, the same way they'd entered. Each of them refused to take their eyes off the darkness as they retreated.

Harry remained silent while they made their way upstairs, and continued up to their rooms as Malfoy quietly slipped out the door. He didn't want to say it, but as he stood in that terrible space, the oddest sense of familiarity washed over him. _That_ was why he really acquiesced to Hermione's plea.

That familiarity brought with it memories of a searing pain marring his skin, and firelight against the night sky, of writhing bodies, and raucous laughter. Memories of soulless eyes boring into his, and a vicious grin of teeth stained with blood.

* * *

A knock at her door startled Hermione and she frowned, mashing her face into her pillow and grumbling something that might have been, "Go away."

The knocking came again, and she rolled over, angrily kicking off her covers and swinging her legs over the side of the bed to stand. She'd just gotten comfortable! Probably her own disastrous luck for thinking she might finally get a few decent hours of sleep.

Groaning, she dragged her feet as she stalked to the door. She didn't care if that was Ron, or Harry, disturbing her. Either way, _someone _was getting a smack!

Yanking open the door, she let out a small gasp, surprised to find Draco standing there. For a breathless moment, she merely stared up into those grey eyes.

He sank his teeth into his bottom lip, forcing a gulp before he managed in a whisper, "What? You're not going to invite me in?"

Hermione felt a wash of color warm her cheeks, but lifted her chin, defiantly. "Why should I do that?"

Smirking, he lowered his head, speaking softly in her ear, "So I can make you forget what a horrible day this has been."

Hermione didn't wait for him to pull back and look at her again. She grabbed him by the collar and tugged him into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.


	23. Unbidden Words

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* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Unbidden Words

Once she had him in front of her, the door closed to shut out the rest of the world, and the room illuminated by no more than the moonlight and faint glow of lampposts filtering in through the windows, she froze.

She wasn't certain what to say, wasn't certain what to do.

Draco cracked a smirk.

Hermione's brow furrowed. "What?"

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

Her face fell, but his expression only brightened.

Frowning, she thumped a fist hard against his chest. "That's not funny, especially under the circumstances."

Letting a breath hiss from between his lips, he rubbed the spot where she struck him. "Sorry, I was only trying to lighten your mood."

She sat on the bed, her shoulders slumping as she laughed and shook her head. "And here, I thought you had some other method in mind."

"Oh?" He arched a brow, moving to sit beside her. "What did you think I was going to do?"

"Well," Hermione began as she turned her head to look at him. "I . . . ." Had his face been so close a moment ago?

He leaned nearer, still, and she felt his breath, warm against her mouth. She parted her lips and shifted closer to him, tipping her head back to meet his kiss.

Yet the moment his mouth pressed over hers, she pulled away and jumped to her feet. "I'm—I'm sorry, I can't do this!"

His eyebrows shot up into his bangs as he leaned forward, watching her. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands before him. "You can't let me kiss you?"

"Yes. No. I mean . . . ." She groaned and buried her face in her hands. Raking her fingers back through her hair, she forced a sigh. "I mean you and I made a deal. We said that if we started getting emotional, we'd stop the physical stuff."

Draco bit his lip, his gaze still following her movements as she once more fell into a sitting position beside him, her demeanor one of exhaustion. Her shoulders drooped, and he didn't quite know what to make of the sad little half-frown, half-pout expression that tugged the corners of her mouth downward.

"Look, I can't pretend. I thought maybe I could. I don't know if this is just . . . ." Hermione shrugged, folding her hands in her lap as she rolled her eyes up to stare at the ceiling. "If it's just something about _us _actually getting to know one another, or if it's because of everything that's happened lately, and only having each other to turn to."

She shifted to look at him, again, pulling one leg up on the bed to face him, fully. "I don't hate you anymore."

Draco sat up straighter, touching a finger to his pursed lips for a moment before speaking. "So, if I have this correct," he said, his tone hinted at amusement, "I can't kiss you because you _don't _hate me anymore?"

Again she uttered a groan. "Yes! What isn't clear about that?"

"Sort of the whole thing."

Hermione rolled her eyes as she said, "I'm sticking to our deal. It's not just that I don't hate you, anymore." She frowned and dropped her gaze to the floor. "It's that I . . . I actually find myself worrying about you. So we're done, it's over. I'm sorry."

Draco leaned back on an elbow, sighing. "Granger, you are funny. But, no, we're not done."

She made a shrill sound of surprise in the back of her throat as she looked at him. And immediately blushed, despite how forcefully she told herself he didn't look incredibly sexy, lounging on _her_ bed like that.

"I'm sorry? I don't understand. What do you mean we're not?"

A smirk playing on his lips, he reached out, tracing a finger down the side of her throat. When she shivered, but didn't move out of his touch, he sat up again and shifted to sit behind her, draping his legs along either side of hers.

Hermione's eyes drifted closed at the warmth of his body pressing against her, at the feel of his arms slipping around her, and his breath whispering over her throat. But she didn't move—once more she wasn't at all certain what to do. She didn't know what Draco was going to say, and she didn't want to think about it either.

But if he believed that she was going to let him keep playing with her when she'd just admitted to being vulnerable, he had another thing coming!

"I mean," he said softly, his lips brushing ever so lightly against her skin as he spoke, "the other day, when we put together how my aunt _really_ died . . . there wasn't anyone I'd have rather had in that room with me. When we realized what that mark on your arm might mean? I, well, bloody hell, Granger, I was worried about you, too."

She fought the inclination to sink back against him. "So?"

"So? What this means is our _deal _remains in effect." He rushed on before she could question that. "Our agreement was that if _either_ of us begins to view things from an emotional angle, then we had to stop."

Her shoulders slumped again and she swallowed hard as she nodded. "Yeah?"

Lifting one hand, he touched the tips of his fingers to her jaw and raised her head, turning her gaze to meet his. "We never said anything about if _both _of us began to."

She put a lot of effort into not dropping her attention to his mouth. "You're playing semantics."

As though he knew her struggle, he sank his teeth into bottom lip, chuckling when she lost her battle with herself and lowered her gaze to watch. "And you're glad I'm clever enough to turn your argument around on you, this time."

Nodding, she forced a breath. "Okay, okay," she turned and slid her arms around his neck, pressing soft kisses against his lips and chin as she spoke, "you're right, and I'm glad about it!"

Grinning, he pulled her to straddle his lap. "When are you going to learn that I'm usually right?"

"Oh, shut up, Draco," she whispered, tugging off his shirt before leaning up to thrust her tongue between his lips.

* * *

_He screamed, the sound muffled by the wad of cloth in his mouth. Shifting and stirring beneath the bonds, he could feel his strength slipping away._

_His fear was so potent, it nearly blocked the pain of the blade slicing into his arm. He lifted his head, and the movement proved an exhausting task, but he could see the bowls beneath his slashed wrists; watched the line of crimson droplets pooling under his hands. The more he struggled, the faster the blood seeped out._

_His head fell back and his body went limp from the effort. He tried, once more, to spit out the makeshift gag and failed, coughing awkwardly against the cloth._

_Voldemort turned to face him, blade in hand. But what terrified him was the peaceful, loving smile upon His lips._

_"Shhh, this is all for the best," Voldemort whispered, leaning to kiss his forehead. "I love you all so much that I am allowing you to help me."_

_Voldemort straightened up, pressing the tip of the blade lightly to the soft spot, just beneath the young man's sternum._

_He cried harshly, his voice no more than a weak, keening sound in the back of his throat as his tears spilled down his temples._

_"Shhh,"_ _Voldemort said, again. "Your death serves a noble purpose. I will become something _more_, but such would not be possible without all of you. Thank you, my friend." He leaned down, kissing the skin just above the blade's point. "Sleep well."_

* * *

Harry bolted up in bed, a scream strangling out of his throat, only to die on his lips as he darted his gaze about his darkened bedroom. Gasping for air, he pressed one hand to over his heart, and wiped cold sweat from his eyes with the other.

He waited until his breathing slowed, the events from the nightmare, the terrible whispered words, playing through his mind again. Sparing a moment to grab his glasses from the bedside table and slip them on, he forced the images from his thoughts as he kicked off his blanket and he climbed out of bed.

"I have to go tell Hermione," he said to himself, nodding and ignoring that the skin on his arms ached and burned. Perhaps if he looked, he thought, the bloody, carved symbols might actually be there.

Harry started, freezing mid-step in his dash to the door. Turning his head, his gaze touched upon his sleeved arm. The warmth drained from his face and his breath shook out from between his lips as he wondered if those marks really _were_ . . . .

"No!" He shook his head, forcing himself to open the door and step out into the corridor.

He'd have her check. With the panicked state he was in right now, he wasn't sure he wouldn't imagine seeing something that wasn't there.

* * *

Hermione shifted, slipping backward out of his lap to kneel before him. She dropped kisses down his chest, trailing to one side to flick the tip of her tongue over his nipple as her fingers tugged open his belt.

Draco chuckled, his fingers sinking into her hair. "Should I just lay back and let you do all the work, then?"

With a wicked-sounding giggle she snapped her teeth against his nipple—drawing a hissed breath from him—before raising her head to look at him. "Think highly of ourselves, do we?"

His eyelids fluttered as she swirled her tongue over his skin. "Hullo, I'm Draco Malfoy, have we met?"

Once more she graced him with a giggle as she unzipped his trousers. "I'm sorry, must've forgot who I was talking to for a moment. But as I recall . . . there's a_ favor_ you wanted me to repay."

"Oh," he said simply, grinning.

Holding his gaze, she slid her hand into his clothes, gently pulling his length free to stroke him with her fingers. She almost laughed at the way his grip tightened in her hair and his mouth dropped open just a little.

"Don't be a tease."

She shook her head, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip—purposefully approximating the same look he always gave her—before she said, "It's only teasing if I don't follow through."

He felt his breath come up short as he watched her lean down, brushing her lips against the tip of his length.

She opened her mouth just as a knock sounded at the door.

Hermione froze, rolling panicked eyes up to meet Draco's.

"Hermione, wake up, please," Harry's voice filtered through the door.

"Oh, you've _got_ to be joking," Draco hissed in an aggravated whisper.

Clearing her throat, she called out, "Just a second, Harry." Forcing herself to her feet, she ran shaky hands over her hair and along her pajamas, making herself as unruffled as possible.

She glanced back at Draco as she went to the door, but he was still grumbling under his breath as he shook his head, seeming unwilling to even zip up his trousers. Taking a deep, trembling breath to steel her nerves—an attempt which failed miserably—she cracked open the door and peeked out.

"What are you doing, Harry? It's . . . late," she said softly, trying her level-best not to sound awkward.

He frowned, his green eyes enormous behind his glasses and rimmed with red. "I know, I'm sorry, but I had one of _those_ dreams. And I need to talk to you about it, now. I think it could be important."

His appearance worried her. He looked like he was ready to fall down, dead-asleep any moment, _and_ jump out of his own skin, both at the same time. She couldn't help the brief wonder if perhaps this was how she and Draco seemed the first few days they were mucking through this mess, too.

She stepped back, but halted immediately. Her natural inclination was to let Harry into the room, but she was so acutely aware of Draco's presence that the legacy brat might as well be standing right at her back.

"Ron," she said suddenly, blinking rapidly as she forced a gulp down her throat.

"What?"

"Well, uh, Ron's in this, too, right? So . . . we should go to Ron's room and discuss it there."

Harry's brow furrowed, his anxiety tempered for a moment by her skittish behavior. "Hermione, what's wrong?"

Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth puckered as she refrained from the typical nervous fidgeting of her fingers as she clutched the door. "Nothing, no. Nothing's wro—"

"It's me," Draco's voice cut in, a bored, irritated sigh following his words.

Hermione felt her heart thump hard against her ribcage at the anger flooding Harry's expression. Sighing and hanging her head as her shoulders slumped, she let go of the door.

She knew he was going to find out about her and Draco sometime, she'd just hoped it wouldn't be like _this_.

Harry pushed past her and she turned with her eyes squeezed shut, cringing, expecting to hear him cursing a blue streak as punches were thrown. Instead, what met her ears was an exasperated, mystified question.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Hermione opened her eyes to see Draco sitting cross-legged on the floor by the window. Fully dressed, his pale hair neat—finger-combed into place, she guessed.

Draco only shrugged. "Well, you'll excuse me if Granger's been in this a little longer than you and Weasel-bee, so I feel more comfortable speaking to her about things than either of _you_. I wanted to talk to her about that feeling we had just before we got the room open, since nobody wanted to discuss it at the time."

She came within a hair's breadth of letting a surprised noise bubble out of her throat. Draco Malfoy had caught her off-guard, again. In a scramble to cover for her, he'd managed to stumble over something they _should _have been discussing . . . rather than pawing at each other like zoo animals during mating season.

Honestly, they were _really_ going to have to learn how to keep their hands off one another now that Harry and Ron were involved in all this.

Harry bit his lip, stifling a grumble of aggravation as he gave a nod. "All right, well, you were going to have to hear about it, anyway, and Hermione's right, Ron should hear it, too. So . . . c'mon, then."

Just as quickly as Harry had stormed into the room, he spun on a heel and bounded right back out into the corridor.

Hermione stood before the door, still, watching Draco as he climbed to his feet and strolled up to her.

Drifting past her to follow Harry, he whispered, "You still owe me that _favor_." Draco's voice was so low she knew the other young man couldn't hear him.

She felt her cheeks warm and tried not to smile as she recalled the feel of his skin beneath her lips; as she recalled the sensation of her fingers sliding over him. Holding in a sigh that was equal parts blissful and disappointed, she stepped from the room to trail Harry and Draco down the corridor, toward the men's wing.

* * *

As the four sat around Ron's room, listening to Harry's dream, and recounting the different, sick and twisting senses of foreboding they'd felt wash over them at the moment they opened the secret room, Hermione shifted, and fidgeted. She was certain if she looked at Draco for longer than a few seconds, Ron or Harry would read into her expression the _real_ reason Draco was still in Gryffindor Hall.

After a stretched and painful silence, she lifted her gaze from the floor to find all three young men looking at her.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she glanced at them each, in turn. "What?"

"Potter wants you to check him for any marks."

Draco sounded irritated, but Hermione couldn't indulge her current desire to assure him that Harry's choice was perfectly innocent, and only made sense. She was Harry's best friend, and guys could be so awkward with one another.

And if she attempted to ease that unpleasant tension for him . . . . Well, hell, they might as well come out and spill what they did when they were in the alone dark, right here and now.

"Um, sure, okay," she said, nodding stiffly as she got to her feet and drifted to a corner of the room with Harry.

He unbuttoned his pajama shirt and dropped it down, off his shoulders, keeping the sleeves bunched in his fists. Closing his eyes, he turned his head away, as though afraid to see her expression as she examined him.

Frowning uncertainly, she once more glanced at Ron and Draco. They each appeared to find something delightfully distracting out the curtained window, at that moment.

Shaking her head, she faced Harry again and looked him over. There was no mark on his chest, where he recalled Voldemort pressing the tip of the blade, no strangely shaped bruises on his left arm. She circled him, checking his back for spots where he swore he felt scratches from the rough stone of the bare altar beneath him.

Hermione almost closed her eyes as she completed her circle. She didn't want to look at his right arm. She was too afraid. He might have a mark like the one she'd had last week—if she held her arm at just the proper angle, she could still see the faint, white lines of it—and she didn't know what she'd do if she saw one on him, too.

Opening one eye, she let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, and then opened her other eye as the set of her shoulders eased. _Nothing_. To reassure herself, she reached out, tracing her fingers lightly over his clear—unmarked, unbruised, _untouched_—skin.

"Nothing," she repeated aloud.

Dropping his head to look down at himself, Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God. It felt _so_ real. I could've sworn . . . ."

Hermione offered an encouraging smile as she dropped her hand and let him pull his shirt back into place. The terrible, gnawing flash of worry she'd felt just now was likely exactly how Harry'd felt yesterday when she and Draco had finally told him about the Voldemort-Riddle situation.

Voldle? Riddemort?

Frowning, she shook her head. Sleep deprivation was at last making her think ridiculous things.

"So what now?" Ron asked as Hermione and Harry returned to their original spots and sat down.

"Nothing," Draco said with a shrug.

"_What_? You can't be serious."

Draco simply shook his head—Ron seemed eager to let himself be baited by anything a Malfoy said. "Look, that nightmare was disturbing, sure, but it doesn't really tell us _anything_. I mean, it's not a past life thing—"

"How can you be sure?" Harry asked, though he didn't want to think he could have died in such a horrible way.

"Because there's no sense of attachment when we have these dreams." When all three Gryffindor residents cast quizzical looks his way, Draco once more shook his head. "I _do_ read. I looked into it after the first two dreams. They don't feel like memories, they just feel like scenes we're witnessing. Something's connecting us to them so we feel what happened, sure, but it's something _else_."

"It's probably your families' histories with Riddle. You're all here, Riddle was copying Voldemort; you're the blood relations of Riddle's victims. Maybe that's the link we've been missing."

"Maybe," Draco said, standing and giving a long stretch. "But as for now, nothing has changed. Voldemort said he was trying to become something _more_, right?"

Harry nodded, looking away as he forced his mind not to linger any further on the matter. "Right."

"So unless any of us has a brainstorm on exactly what he meant, or has another nightmare that conveniently explains it, we still don't know anything more than we did two hours ago. _And_ we still have nothing to show anyone to prove a word of any of this. Therefore, the plan hasn't changed. We talk to Snape after classes, and get into that church as soon as possible."

As Hermione climbed to her feet, Harry stood, as well. She looked from him to Draco, and back.

"I'll walk you out," Harry said, the words tumbling out in an unhappy mutter, though he was grinning.

Hermione held in a sigh as she followed the two from the room. Maybe she should have let Harry catch them, she thought dully as she watched Harry march, two steps behind Draco, all the way down the staircase, through the common area, and to the front door.

As Harry turned away, Draco caught Hermione's gaze over his shoulder. Just before the door swung closed, he gave her that_ evil_, suggestive look . . . winking at her as his teeth sank into his bottom lip.

"Night, Harry," she squeaked, darting back to her own room before her friend could see the furious blush coloring her cheeks.


	24. Awkward and Unsettling

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Awkward and Unsettling

Hermione twisted her fingers in the edges of her sleeves as she hurried down the corridor beside Draco. They'd practically jumped out of their seats in their rush to exit the room the moment Snape declared the class dismissed. Draco had insisted they get to Snape's office before he did, that the element of surprise in confronting him—whether he was involved with that awful little room, or not—would give them some sort of advantage.

"I didn't notice him acting strange, did you?"

Draco cast her a sidelong glance as he shrugged. "It's _Snape_, how could you tell?"

The set of her shoulders eased as she let out a giggle. "Fair enough. I _meant _stranger than usual."

"If you're asking me do I think he's got anything to do with this mess, then the answer is _no_, but he did know Crouch's son, and he knew Riddle. He could_ still_ know something that might be important."

She made an uncertain sound in the back of her throat as she clapped her hands against her cheeks.

He turned toward her as they reached the door of Snape's office. "Look, I know you're nervous about talking to him, because . . . well, because he's frankly quite off-putting, but think of it this way—this conversation is just another thing to cross off our to-do list."

"I know, I know," Hermione said, grimacing as she shook her head, her fingers still pressed to her face. "I'm sorry, it's just . . . honestly, he terrifies me."

Draco gently grasped her wrists, pulling her hands from her face to hold them in his. "Yes, you do kind of make that obvious. You don't have to do any of the talking, and you're not alone. I'm _right_ here."

A tension in the center of her chest loosened and a small, grateful smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

"Just like Potter and Weasel-bee will be right here, any second," he said in a whisper, exasperation coloring his expression as he dropped her hands.

With an unpleasant start, she noticed he wasn't looking at her, rather over her shoulder, and she turned to see Harry and Ron approaching.

"Snape's not here, yet, I take it?"

Draco answered Ron's question with a withering glare. "Yes, we just asked if he'd wait inside, politely and patiently, until we were all here, so we could conduct what'll likely be a half-arsed and completely inept interrogation."

One corner of Ron's mouth pinched up in a sneer. "You could've just said no."

"If you don't want snarky responses, don't ask stupid questions."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a tired glance before Harry held up a hand. "Enough, we're all on the same side in this. So let's just focus and—here he comes."

The other three followed Harry's gaze to find Snape storming down the corridor, his attention on the floor as he fished in the pockets of his jacket. A look of displeasure twisted his features, yet no more severe than usual, Hermione thought; as though Snape always expected life to disappoint him.

Withdrawing his keys, Snape finally lifted his gaze, halting in his tracks as he saw the four of them stationed before his office. His dark eyes widened as he looked at each of them in turn, before narrowing in suspicion.

"To what do I owe the . . . pleasure of being greeted by this motley assortment of . . . visitors?"

The four glanced at one another, a shared feeling of uncertainty stealing over them. They'd really not put into detail how they would go about this part of their plan, as Snape, himself, was a variable, and they couldn't predict anything he chose to do, or say. The one thing upon which they'd all agreed was that to attempt setting questions and responses in stone might actually hinder them.

Unfortunately, only _now_ did they realize that they were left not knowing who should say what.

At their lack of response—and unsettling expressions of shared bewilderment—Snape brushed past them and set to unlocking his office.

"We want to talk to you about Riddle!"

The jaws of the young men with Hermione fell slack at her blurted words. Snape only slumped his shoulders, not bothering to turn toward them, nor even glance back at them as he pushed open the door.

"Miss Granger, I already made myself clear. The decision by Mr. Malfoy . . . and yourself to turn in your assignment early was—"

"Not that," she said, shaking her head. When the young men still appeared unready to speak, she frowned at Draco and slapped his shoulder.

"Ow! Yeah, okay, no need for violence. We know you knew Riddle, and his . . . _friend_, Barty Crouch, Jr."

Snape spun to face them, eyes wide and jaw clenched. "How do _you_ know that name?"

Hermione glanced around, aware that the four of them were in possession of information they were not supposed to have. "Because," she dropped her voice to a whisper and took half a step closer to the professor. "Because that's who took our friend Lavender."

Standing straighter, Snape looked about the corridor, himself, before pushing his office door wide, and gesturing for them to enter.

* * *

Fudge pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly as he climbed the hill—he wasn't a fan of overgrown grass or unkempt shrubbery, even less so when he had to trudge through it. Honestly, this was a young man's job and he was getting farther from every day.

At the very sight of the expression on his partner's face, Shacklebolt's massive shoulders drooped. "Don't tell me . . . ."

Letting out a heavy sigh, Fudge nodded. "Poor girl. Ligature marks all over, ritualistic cutting. The heart and blood—"

"So we_ are _looking at a copycat."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. I was part of the Riddle investigation; the ritual cutting is new." Fudge ran a hand down his face. "Anyway, we'll need to call the Browns."

"Not a discussion I'm looking forward to," Shacklebolt said, his naturally booming voice soft of a moment. "Flip you for it."

"Well, as your elder, _and _senior—bloody hell." Fudge winced, his gaze fixed on something beyond his partner's shoulder.

The look on the old man's face gave Shacklebolt an idea what he would see as he turned to look. Despite bracing himself, he still felt an unpleasant spike jab through him at the familiar, sneering face amongst the crowd of curious onlookers standing at edge of the cordoned-off scene.

"Bollocks," Shacklebolt said in a grumble. "I swear that man's timing is absolutely eerie. How does he always know?"

"You handle him this time. Not a word, not until we inform her family."

Shacklebolt's lips pursed as he leveled a bored gaze at Fudge. "What d'you think this is, my first day?"

Holding in a sigh, the imposing man turned on a heel and walked to the barricade. "Mr. Malfoy, something we can do for you?"

"Nothing in particular, I was merely driving past the park and noticed all . . . this." Lucius Malfoy's stern expression wasn't lightened at all by the small, insincere smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "Can't blame me for being curious as to what the fuss is all about."

Shacklebolt's eyes rolled as he regarded the pale-haired, eternally sour-faced man in the severely tailored suit. He knew he was about to make life a little uncomfortable for the _secret _couple—he distinctly recalled how awkward that Granger girl was when she'd disclosed the name of the young man she was seeing—but he had bigger problems. Those kids were going to have far worse news to sort through, soon enough, and he needed to redirect Malfoy's attention, at least for a little while.

"There is nothing here that concerns you. And if you're here to warn us away from your son, again—_or_ his girlfriend—I can assure you, at present we have no need to speak with either of them, further."

Lucius' brows lifted fractionally as he said in an airy tone, "I assure_ you_, this is not to do with my . . . ." His grey eyes narrowed and his mouth pulled into a grim line. "My son's _what_?"

* * *

Harry and Ron—not students of Snape's—opted to stand. Draco and Hermione took the seats that faced the professor's unnecessarily imposing polished oak desk.

The tension in the room was so thick, Hermione imagined she might literally start choking any second if someone didn't say something, soon.

Snape's unhappy gaze flicked from her to Draco and back, repeatedly. He made no move, said no words, to even acknowledge the two young man standing behind his students.

"We need to know anything you can tell us about Riddle, and Barty, Jr., because there's a chance _he_ might be the Riddle copycat," Draco said, finally, as irritated with the silence and thickness in the air as everyone else.

"Ignoring the fact that I already told you that one murder does not a copycat, nor a serial killer, make?"

Hermione shook her head, doing her level best to keep her natural fear of the man out of her thoughts. "Look, that murder happened, and Crouch, Jr. just happens to pop up after nearly twenty years of being thought dead? That's a bit much of a coincidence, under the circumstances."

"Miss Granger, you would do well to note that I do not believe in . . . coincidences."

Biting her lip, she steeled her resolve. If what Snape _just _said was true, how could he argue them on their reasoning? "If you don't believe in coincidences, then you have to see that this man picking up where Riddle left off makes sense."

"I knew this man, and _because_ I knew him, I am inclined to . . . disagree." Snape propped his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers in front of him mouth. "Barty was a _follower_, by nature. Unless he has drastically changed during his time in hiding, which I . . . doubt, highly, he doesn't have the proper disposition to copy Riddle's methods. Not unless . . . ." Letting his words trail off, Snape's mouth pulled into a small, yet severe, frown.

"Not unless?" Harry prompted.

Snape granted the unfamiliar young man an impatient flick of his gaze. "Not unless someone else is leading him."

Draco's brows drew together. "Any idea who—" His words were cut off by an unnerving tune winding through the air.

Hermione recognized the funeral dirge-like ring tone. "Your father has awful timing," she whispered.

"Tell me about it." Answering the call, he said into the phone, "Just a moment."

The other four people in the office watched him as he rose from the chair and walked to the door.

"I will be right back. No one say a word _until_ I'm here."

Draco slipped out into the corridor, closing the door securely behind him.

Hermione kept her gaze on Harry, and Ron . . . and everything in the office; from bizarre, dark-looking knickknacks on the shelves of his bookcases, to the spines of antiquated psychology texts, cracked and covered with a film of dust. Anything to occupy her attention, so she would not have to notice Snape staring daggers at her.

Harry attempted to give an encouraging smile, but the attempt fell flat, making the expression painful and forced.

The only one willing to regard Snape was Ron. Though, Hermione considered, perhaps _willing _was the wrong term. The way he eyed the teacher—white showing all around his irises—made the words _fearfully transfixed_ come to mind.

She barely kept herself from making a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat. Finally, someone who was more ill at ease in Snape's presence than she was.

The sound of the door creaking open drew their collective attention, but Draco didn't step into the room. Instead, he only poked his head inside.

His expression was closed off, but his cheeks were paler than usual. Hermione gripped her fingers around the arms of her chair as she tensed, but couldn't bring herself to voice her concern at his ashen appearance.

"Granger," he said, his voice unsteady.

Well, his tone just made things even more upsetting, she thought. Draco Malfoy wasn't one who rattled easily.

"Can you step out here for just a moment? Need to talk to you about something."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Um, okay, sure." Without bothering to look at Ron or Harry—she hadn't the faintest clue what expression to force onto her face for them—she hurried from the room.

Draco fidgeted as he waited for her to step into the corridor and shut the door. "My father knows," he said in a rushed tumble of words.

Hermione's eyes widened as she darted her gaze about. "Your father knows what?" Honestly, there was entirely too much going on for him to make such a cryptic statement and expect her to simply understand what he meant. He was cute, but he certainly had his thick moments—she wasn't a bloody mind reader.

"I had convinced him that my friends were joking, and that we weren't involved, remember?"

She nodded.

"He knows I lied. And now he . . ." Draco bit into his lip for a moment before shaking his head and sighing. "And now he wants to meet you."

Hermione's stomach lurched and she found it a miracle she remembered to breathe. Lucius Malfoy, the barrister whom even homicide inspectors dreaded dealing with wanted to meet her. _After_ learning his son lied to him about her?

Her brows drew together as she met Draco's gaze. "Is . . . it an appropriate response for me to say I'm terrified?"

Draco nodded, reaching up to tuck a lock of golden-brown hair—which was losing its salon-trained sleekness and finally starting to revert its natural, bushy frizz—behind her ear as an attempt at a comforting gesture. "Um, maybe just a smidge, yeah."

She caught his hand in hers and held it against her cheek as she drew a steadying breath and let it out slowly. How was it possible, with all the frightful things happening around them lately, that the idea of meeting Draco's father seemed so completely horrifying?


	25. Blood and Lore

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Blood and Lore

Draco glanced about, assuring himself that the corridor was empty before he brought his gaze back to Hermione's. She was so anxious, so utterly in dread at the idea of meeting his father that her cheeks were flushed, and her chestnut eyes were enormous as she stared back at him.

This was hardly the time nor place, yet he couldn't help that seeing her face full of color like that brought too many pleasant thoughts to mind. The kind that sent his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he arched a brow.

After a few seconds of watching his expression, Hermione's eyebrows shot up her forehead. "Oh, no," she said, unable to help a small, nervous grin lifting the corners of her mouth as she waved a finger at him. "I know that look."

He stepped closer. "I figured that's what your smile's about."

"We—well, it_ is_, but . . . ." She shook her head, lowering her voice to a barely-audible whisper. "We can't do this here."

Draco pressed his hands to the door on either side of her. Lowering his face so that the tips of their noses nearly brushed, he asked, "Oh, and why not?"

She chewed on her bottom lip, still unable to pull her gaze from his. "Because Harry or Ron might come out and catch us."

"Well, first." He smirked as he leaned just a bit closer. "If they did, then at least hiding _this_ from your friends would be one less thing to worry about. And second . . . ."

Hermione forced a gulp down her throat. She knew he was right, her friends knowing about them would take a weight off her shoulders, but there was so much going on. She wasn't certain she could handle some big, messy row with Harry right now.

"Second?" she echoed, sharply focused—despite inward attempt to not—on the feel of his warm breath ghosting over her skin.

"Second, is that you haven't moved a muscle to push me away."

Hermione groaned, her shoulders drooping. "Bloody hell," she said in a grumble as she reached up, bunching his shirtfront in her fists and pulling him closer. She shifted forward, pressing her body to his as he kissed her.

After a few moments of her sucking on his bottom lip—dear _God_, why were they in a public place, right now—he pulled his head back, looking down at her. "We, um . . . ." He cleared his throat, tapping a finger against her lips. "We need to finish this discussion later . . . . Somewhere a little less _open_, I think."

She cracked a half-smile, before turning around and reaching for the doorknob. The change in position made her acutely aware of how close he stood behind her. Hermione forced herself to ignore the warmth and . . . _solidness_ of him back there.

"Wait!" She met his gaze over her shoulder.

He bit his lip, again, but this time the accompanying expression was far from happy, and became something darker and more demanding than his usual flirtatiousness, as his eyelids fluttered. "Granger, I swear, if you don't move right now—"

"Sorry." She shifted forward just enough that he was no longer pressed to her as she went on. "What are we going to tell them we were doing out here?"

Dark eyebrows shot up into his pale bangs as he made a thoughtful face, his mouth dropping in an _O._ "Well, we could always—"

"Not the truth, not yet."

"I know," he said in a withering tone, before winking at her and smirking. "I just like seeing you get all squirmy like that."

Biting her lip to hold in a giggle, she slapped his shoulder.

* * *

Barty swallowed hard as he watched the creature move across the room. He'd tried to caution the thing to stay still, to rest a bit while he disposed of the girl's body. Yet, when Barty returned, he found him pacing, restlessly. But the movements didn't quite fit the form.

_Stalking . . . ._

Like a starved beast, believing anything which neared the man—bloody hell, could _that_ even be called a man—might be prey.

But at least the skin rested against the bones and muscles beneath properly, now. He _looked_ normal, not quite how Barty remembered, but so much time had passed. The recent growth of dark curls upon his formerly bald and wrinkled head was certainly familiar, and the equally dark eyes.

The skin was smooth, now, the expressions that flitted across his face now and again almost natural. He looked like anyone, yet the contrast to how he'd looked over these past few weeks only made Barty more keenly aware of how horrible and haggard and misshapen his form had been.

Yet, the teeth . . . Barty's face scrunched in mix of distaste and fear. No matter how often the creature allowed Barty to clean those teeth, they looked rusty, as though the stains from consuming his the offerings forgot themselves for a few moments; vanishing for a time, only to return shortly after.

The image made Barty think of rotting flesh. When its putrid breath wafted over Barty's face, he tried not to picture festering wounds.

Barty knew he would feel relieved when this was all over and the thing before him was whole, again. Whole, and finally _more. _But at this moment, he could feel nothing but sickness and fear twisting in his gut; nauseating him and prickling his arms with goose bumps.

He might have even allowed himself the courtesy of vomiting to relieve the uncomfortable sensation, but the creature drew close to him, then.

Barty looked up, the cellar of the long-abandoned home into which he'd been forced to smuggle both Riddle's remains, and the recent sacrifices, far too small with the creature's sudden, looming closeness.

"It is time," the thing said, his voice still strange, and mangled, still hard on the ears, but much more collected now that his throat and vocal cords were whole. "Bring me Eleven's second offering."

"Y-yes, Master." Jumping to follow the order, Barty darted up the stairs.

As he retrieved the heart and began preparing it for the ritual, he was again overcome with a terrible dread. There was still time for the creature to learn of the mistake he'd made. But everything would be all right. Once the ritual was finally completed, his master would be _better_ than before.

Once his master had what he wanted, Barty's bungled resurrection spell would no longer matter.

* * *

Hermione reentered the room, Draco behind her. The moment she stepped in, Harry whirled to face her, his expression questioning.

Her jaw gaped. The unusual circumstances of finding herself—once more—stuck in a room with Draco, Snape, Harry _and_ Ron jarred from her head the cover story Draco had given her to explain his need to speak with her privately.

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Draco said, "We were discussing how much to share with the good professor, here."

Snape's dark gaze narrowed sharply as it touched upon each of them, in turn. "How much of what? What is it, exactly, that you . . . think you know?"

Plastering a determined scowl on his face, Draco stepped into the very center of the room and folded his arms across his chest. Holding the professor's forever unamused gaze, he explained in a cold tone about the fact-based connections they'd found. He spoke of the cover up about how their relatives _really _died eighteen years ago, how Riddle might have actually been copycatting a series of similar murders tied to the history of the university's grounds.

Draco felt the surprised looks from the other three—they'd not discussed sharing anything about the Voldemort story—but he had seen to it that they had one piece of possible evidence to back this up. Now that they had someone they needed to convince, he couldn't allow the opportunity to get answers, if there were any, to slip past.

As he hoped, Snape's brows drew together as he leaned forward, over his desk.

"What similar murders?"

Grinning triumphantly, Draco stepped over to his bag and dug out a folded sheet of paper. He'd been keeping it with him since printing it out, just in case. Randomly re-checking the words every so often, to assure himself that this was all _really_ happening.

He opened the page and set it down before Snape. "We know what happened at that sad little church. We think Riddle found out, somehow, and he was trying to duplicate something he thought the head of the clergy was doing."

Snape's eyes widened as he skimmed the article. His jaw tightened for a few painful heartbeats before he picked up the paper, stood from his desk, and crossed the room to a giant, antiquated Xerox machine.

"You're making a copy of it?"

Hermione folded her lips into a tight line, her eyes rolling. At the same moment, Draco's shoulders tensed, and he pivoted on heel to fix narrowed eyes on Ron.

Snape didn't bother to turn toward the ginger-haired young man. "Now I see why _you_ are not . . . a student of mine. I'd think it fairly obvious what I'm doing."

Ron's hands balled into fists, and he took a menacing step. He was never one known for controlling his temper, though the task had become remarkably more difficult since Lavender's disappearance.

Harry reached out, grabbing his friend's wrist and dragging him back to his original spot. "I—I think what he means is _why_ are you making a copy?"

"Because . . . ." Snape paused for a stretched moment, resting his palms against the machine as he hung his head. "After I wrote this article, I was stupid enough to give the only draft to the paper that was going to publish it. Ungrateful swine . . . doesn't even have my bloody name on it. Anonymous Contributor, indeed."

"_You_ wrote it?" Hermione's voice was thick with shock as she forced out the words. "Why? Why were _you_ even interested in some old story?"

Letting out a long, loud sigh, Snape snatched the copy and Draco's print out from the machine and walked back to his desk. Sinking into his seat with an exhausted air, he said in a quiet tumble of words, "Because my original field . . . was parapsychology. When I first returned to Rowling, I came to investigate the disturbances that plagued the campus when I'd been a student, here." Lifting his duplicate of the article to skim the text, once more, he continued, "I didn't learn any of this until . . . after Riddle was already dead. I didn't have any reason to connect this story to his crimes."

There was a heavy, strained silence in the room as the four students looked around at one another.

"Why do you think the two are connected?"

"Wait," Harry said, holding up a hand and stepping forward. The terrible nightmare of being sliced up and sacrificed still fresh in his mind. "No one else knows about this story." He believed Hermione when she told him how difficult digging up that article had been; the story being kept under wraps made even more sense if one believed the original owners of the land wanted to sell the grounds . . . _ever_. "How did _you_ hear it?"

"Abandoned church and, more notably,_ churchyard, _on the grounds?I had reason to believe the disturbances might be tied to whomever was buried there, but no records existed. I started asking around, and was eventually pointed to an old woman, rumored quite mad, as all she ever did was warn people away from the place. Turned out she was a descendant of that town elder, Albus Dumbledore. Still alive at the time, but she's probably long passed by now. No one had ever cared to listen, and I was willing to pay her to learn. Even then . . . ." He shook his head, his gaze far off for a moment. "She only agreed to tell me if I didn't name my source, or the church, or hint at the location."

Draco piped up, before Snape could ask what he already knew was the next, logical question. "We found Voldemort's name scratched into one of the tombstones."

Sighing heavily, Snape propped a fist beneath his chin. He didn't look tired, Hermione realized with a start, he looked _drained._ "Figures. The one detail I overlooked. The whole thing became quite the scandal in its day. When I learned the story, I, of course, had to change Dumbledore's connection to the clergy, at the request of my source. To this day I am surprised so much went on under the noses of the local population."

Hermione asked in a small voice, "What _was_ Dumbledore's connection?"

"He knew there was something wrong at that church." Snape seemed to take a long time with the rest of the story, weighing whether or not he really wanted to tell them. "The clergy kept bringing him children. Infants, they said were left with them, yet they insisted quite strongly upon which family should take which child."

A sick feeling wrenched Hermione's stomach. "Why were they so insistent? Why did he think something was wrong?"

The professor met the young woman's gaze, worn, but unflinching. "Because the families the clergy chose were their own. Parents, uncles, siblings, cousins. _Always_ their own families. Dumbledore believed that had to mean the infants were—"

"Theirs," Hermione said, feeling as though she couldn't breathe. "They were the children of the clergy members."

Draco understood instantly why she looked a little green. "You think . . . ?"

She turned her face toward him. "Blood of the twelve," she whispered, her voice so weak he was surprised he heard her. "It's been in front of us the entire time. We're the twelve because those were _our_ families."

Hermione's vision swam and her stomach roiled.

"Granger," Draco bellowed, his heart in his throat as she collapsed.


	26. Sharing Confidences

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Sharing Confidences

_Willing her tearing eyes open, she forced a gulp as she at last eased the door wide enough to slip outside. The clanging grew louder, the jarring sound raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck and made her skin clammy, especially out here, as she stepped into the sunlight, and felt the soft, damp grass beneath her bare feet._

_The noise was coming from behind the church. She turned and the clanging stopped._

_She swallowed hard, once more. The sudden silence made her aware of an icy spot in the pit of her stomach._

Run_, a voice inside told her. _Run! Don't stop, don't look back, just _run_!

_Yet uncertainty rooted her where she stood. She couldn't shake the sense that whatever was happening on the other side of the building had something to do with the absence of the others._

_She loved them too much to leave without at least trying to see what that was._

_Biting her lip to keep from making an involuntary sounds, she crept along the wall. She hugged the building as she rounded the corner and froze. The air was no longer quiet. Tilting her ear toward the new sound, she attempted to identify it._

_Was that scraping? Something scraping against stone?_

_Whatever that was, it_ had_ to mean Voldemort was still distracted, didn't it? Nodding at her thoughts, she forced her legs into motion once more._

_She reached the next corner and reminded herself to breathe, slowly, so she wouldn't make too much noise. Gripping her fingers into the wall before her so tight she thought the tips might bruise, she dipped her head around the side of the building. Only enough to see._

_Grey-white stones rose from the grass, each baring one of their symbols. She wanted to deny what they were, but she knew instantly. _Grave markers.

_The scraping drew her gaze to Voldemort's figure, stooped before one of the stones as his shoulders moved._

_And . . . was he_ humming? _The very thought of how cheerful he sounded nauseated her. These people were her family! Just like he was supposed to be!_

_The nausea and sadness turned to anger in a heartbeat. Her skin grew hot, and her fingers tingled with the urge to grab something—her muscles tensed with the want to hit someone. Biting deep into her lip, she dropped her gaze to the ground, searching._

There!

_She picked up the rock, hefting it once, twice, in her hand ensure she could swing it. Dark gaze fixing on his hunched figure, she started for him at a run._

_He was so caught up in his terrible work, he never heard her approach._

_As hard as she fought not to scream in her rage, a horrible sob choked out of her as she lifted the stone over her head._

_Voldemort looked up, his beautiful eyes wide and his jaw slack. "Cerys!"_

_He made a grab for her and she brought the stone down against his face, against the side of his head, again, and again. She struck as hard as she could until he released her._

_Cerys stood over him, trembling, heaving the rock for another strike, but . . . as she gathered her dwindling strength, she realized he was motionless. Motionless, and bloodied, yet he breathed, still._

_She inhaled sharply, dropping her weapon to cover her mouth with the back of a shaking hand. Tears welled as she looked to the gravestones and then back to Voldemort._

_"We loved you," she said, her words a broken whisper. She tried again, this time working up a scream, "We _loved_ you!"_

_Letting her tears fall free, she took a strange, belligerent joy in spitting on his unconscious form. Casting one last look at her friends' resting places, Cerys spun on her heel and ran away, as fast as her legs could carry her._

* * *

Hermione snapped awake, blinking rapidly a few times as the ceiling of Snape's office came into focus above her. The flesh-colored blobs hanging on the edges of her vision cleared and shifted to form Draco's and Harry's faces.

She felt them squeeze her fingers, and realized in a daze that they each held one of her hands. Shaking her head, she allowed them to assist her in sitting up. "Did . . . did I faint?"

The young men holding her exchanged a glance before Harry answered. "We're not sure. You collapsed, that much was obvious, but . . . ."

"You were only out for a few seconds," Draco said, finishing the explanation.

Once more she shook her head, blinking hard. "A few seconds? You're _joking_! I saw so much, just now. The bride, I know how she got away. And her name! And—"

Ron's throat clearing stopped her. The trio looked toward the ginger-haired young man, to find him—not at all subtly—jutting his chin in Snape's direction. Forcing a gulp, Hermione shifted her attention to the professor. His dark, mystified gaze moved to meet each of theirs, in turn.

"Someone needs to start making sense. Preferably soon," Snape said, his voice low. He was still irritated and perplexed that the boys had cautioned him _against_ calling for someone to escort the girl to the campus infirmary.

"Okay." Hermione pushed up to stand, ignoring that she swayed on her feet, even as Draco and Harry stood beside her, each holding an arm. "But not here. Even if your original field of study was parapsychology, you might not believe a word of it without us showing you something."

Snape's thick, dark brows drew together, and the skin beneath his eyes pinched as he sat forward behind his desk, leaning toward them. "Miss Granger, am I to take that to mean you . . . _have_ something to back up this theory about Riddle and Voldemort being connected?"

"Well, yes . . . sort of. There's a lot of explanation to go with it, though." She could feel three gazes, aside from Snape's, weighing on her. Biting her lip, she looked to Harry, Ron, and then Draco.

"What, uh, what the bloody hell are you doing, Hermione?" Harry whispered.

She shrugged, tipping her head toward Harry's and pulling Draco close so he could hear her equally low reply; Ron ducked nearer of his own accord. "That he's even entertained this discussion _this_ long shows that he's at least allowing us room to make him believe us, but he's probably the only one who will. We could probably do with a faculty member on our side."

"So what are you suggesting?" Draco asked, sparing a second to glance at Snape—the professor watched them with an arched eyebrow, a finger tapping his jaw as he let out a quiet sigh.

"We show him the room, but we sidetrack first, through the churchyard to show him the marks on the graves."

"That's mad," Ron said, his voice tight with disbelief.

"No, she's right," Harry responded, shaking his head. "It's the only thing that even remotely resembles evidence."

"And if we have someone on staff on our side, maybe he can cover for us with getting into the church," Draco added.

"I don't know about that," Hermione said in a murmur. "That place could be dangerous, in a not-structurally-sound way. As a teacher, he might be obligated to put our safety over any other considerations."

"Won't know unless we try. Let's just show him, and then, based on his reaction, ask for his help."

The three Gryffindor Hall residents looked at Draco for a moment, letting his list of events play through their heads again. After an exchange of nods among the group, they turned as a unit to face Snape.

"C'mon," Hermione said, feeling braver in front of the professor now than she had since her first moment as a Rowling student. "We've got a bit of a walk."

* * *

Snape stopped short as he stepped into the basement of Gryffindor Hall, his dark eyes tracing the ugly, gaping wound in the wall panels. "Engaging in destruction of school property, are you?"

Draco scowled. The professor had complained about their unnecessary field trip the entire time. Though, to his credit, his interest seemed piqued by the symbols carved into the stones. Draco tried not to worry about Granger. She'd stalled in front of one stone, in particular. After a moment, she'd glanced around—gauging distance, if he had to guess—looking toward the church, and then to the other graves.

He even thought he might've glimpsed a damp sheen in her chestnut eyes, but she blinked, and then the glimmer of tears was gone. He knew this was likely the result of whatever she'd witnessed when she'd collapsed. She'd tell him later, he was certain.

"We had a reason," Harry said, his tone sour as he pulled his mobile from his pocket and switched on the light.

Snape only watched as the other three students followed suit, and they all began trooping through the narrow stone corridor they'd revealed. Frowning, he rolled his eyes as he moved along to trail after them, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

As he entered the chamber, he found himself forced to cover a reaction of shock. He'd not expected to find anything like _this_. The four had helpfully positioned the beams of their lights to key areas of the room; one on the altar, one on an antiquated and pitted wood door in the floor—that, according to their story, opened to a tunnel which led to the matching room in Slytherin Hall—one toward the ceiling, and the last making slow circles to show each wall, in turn.

"I think," Miss Granger said, her quiet, unsteady voice echoing off the carved walls, "I was hoping that given your previous field of study, you might be able to tell us what this is up here on the ceiling."

Stepping over to her, he kept his head tipped up, his gaze fixed on the etched circles over their heads. "I admit, I find myself wondering how they managed to reach the ceiling."

"We've asked that, too," Draco said, chuckling.

"No, it looks as though each line is the same depth. That would have to mean that however they accomplished this, it was likely . . . done all at once, by _several_ people, monitoring one another's work as they progressed."

"Which would bring us back to our thoughts that this was done by Riddle's followers, before their deaths," Hermione said, feeling impatient and jittery. She didn't like being here before, but now she somehow felt worse; more on edge, more frantic. She was acutely aware of the room's size, of the feel of the walls around her. The sooner they could get things sorted, the sooner they could leave. "That still doesn't answer what that is."

"These markings are definitely occult in origin."

"So like . . . devil worshiping, or something?"

The professor didn't bother shooting Ron a withering glare. "No, occult only means _hidden_, really. The word has lost its meaning, as so many of the old pagan religions had to be hidden during the Dark Ages. At some point the vilification of the old religions led to the belief that anything which could be called occult was evil."

Ron made a thoughtful sound, nodding as he went back to watching the door.

"I would guess they are definitely for some ritualistic purpose. Possibly an elaborate spell. What that spell is, I couldn't begin to tell you."

"So . . . ." Harry almost didn't want to continue—now that he'd met Snape, he could tell why this professor unsettled his students. The man had a vibe about him that was disquieting, yet difficult to explain. "You believe us, then?"

"I wish I could pretend I didn't, Mr. . . . Potter, was it?"

Harry forced a gulp. "Y-yes, Professor."

"Now, what . . . exactly, were you four whispering about in my office?"

"We need to get into the church—to figure out what all this is—and we were hoping you could help us."

Hermione, Harry, and Ron all turned wide eyes on Draco.

"Best to get it all out at once," the Slytherin student explained with a shrug.

Snape pivoted to face them as a group. Folding his arms across his chest, he rested his hips back against the edge of the altar. "I suppose aiding you would be the least I can do."

Hermione and Draco exchanged a sudden, wary glance. "I don't understand," she said, her voice low and wavering, still. "What do you mean, the least you can do?"

"Given what you've told me, and my experiences with these grounds, I can't help but wonder if I might be responsible for your predicament."

Draco stepped forward a bit, forgetting that Harry and Ron were present—or perhaps simply not caring—to place himself between Hermione and Snape. "You think you're responsible for this? How?"

"Because that assignment _wasn't_ random. I arranged the papers so that you two would . . . receive Riddle's name." He held out his hands, silencing any outbursts as he went on, "I had no idea it would stir anything. I thought eighteen years was long enough. You are . . . my two brightest students, I thought that together, you might find something about Riddle that I missed."

Hermione relaxed instantly, her shoulders drooping as she sagged forward against Draco. "That's why you were so disappointed when we didn't reach any real conclusion!"

Snape nodded.

"No." Harry shook his head. He hated how . . . _close_ Hermione and Draco seemed, but now wasn't the time to focus on that fantastically horrific notion. "The time frame doesn't really sync."

"Potter's right. It's not your fault," Draco said. "This all started _days_ before you even paired us together."

"The voice in Slytherin Hall's storeroom?" Hermione asked—honestly, so much had happened in these past few weeks that she'd nearly forgotten.

Draco turned his head, catching her gaze over his shoulder and nodding.

Like a bolt, the realization struck her. As she stood behind Draco, as he shielded her again. "That night, do you remember? You stood in front of me, like this. And I put my hand on your back."

Draco's gaze searched hers as he recalled the moment of which she spoke. And . . . . "Just like in that dream we had."

"Just like our ancestors." Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper as she looked to the ceiling's carvings. "Fear, protection, closeness. We stood exactly as they had. All along it's been _us_, Malfoy; you and me. _We_ were the trigger."

Before anyone could speak, she turned, darting down the corridor.


	27. Levity, Though Brief

**I know the updates are supposed to be once a week, but as we draw toward the end, I think I may be stepping that up, to finish the story's repost that much faster.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Levity, Though Brief

Draco knew he'd find her in the churchyard. As he approached he saw her, sitting on her knees in front of the same gravestone where she'd stalled earlier.

Hermione's spine stiffened. She could tell he was there before he was close enough for her to hear his footfalls. Though she hadn't the foggiest idea how she knew, only that she was acutely aware of his nearness.

"Where are the others?"

"Not far," he said, glancing back to where Potter and Weasel-bee stood with a notably impatient-looking Professor Snape. "We just weren't sure who should come try to get out of you whatever's wrong."

"And Harry let it be you?" She couldn't help a quiet laugh.

"He may not like it." Draco lifted his gaze, grey eyes squinting as he followed some clouds drifting across the darkening sky. "But I think he realizes that I understand how you're feeling about all this better than they do."

She swiped a hand across her cheeks, not sure what she expected when it came away dry. She _felt_ like she should cry, so why couldn't she work up any tears?

"Want to tell me now what you saw when you collapsed?"

Sniffling, Hermione's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "The bride. Her name was Cerys. I think, at least that's what Voldemort called her. She found out he'd sacrificed the others and . . . ." She tipped her head back, sniffing again as she stared at the sky. "She was so sad and so angry that she beat him unconscious with a rock—right on this spot, _right _where I'm sitting—and ran away."

"Spitfire tendencies must run in the family," Draco said as he hunkered down beside her.

She bit her lip to hold in a giggle. "This really isn't funny, you know."

He nodded. "I know."

"I just . . . I don't know what to do. I've always known what to do. What to say, what not to say, what tests to take, which ones didn't matter."

Shifting, he nudged her shoulder with his own. "I'd like to remind you that you haven't always known what to say. I've been there for those moments, remember?"

"You know what I mean, other than . . . _that_."

He sighed, wishing he could sling his arm around her, but that would only result in Potter having a meltdown and complicate things. However reluctantly he might admit it, he understood her caution at the moment—they could wait until after this mess with Riddle and Crouch, Jr. was sorted and _then_ deal with any impending relationship drama.

"I know. Sorry, remember my thing with levity during the serious bits?"

"I remember. Quite fondly, in fact."

He showed the grace not to laugh out loud at her words.

"My point is when I'm caught off-guard I'm usually quick to recover and figure things out, but with this?" Hermione shook her head, before turning her gaze to catch his. "I'm totally lost; I've_ been_ totally lost this entire time."

"Well, for what it's worth, _I _think you're handling things spectacularly_,_" Draco said, winking at her.

Holding in a sigh, she glanced over her shoulder, looking to the three in the distance. Harry's eyes were fixed on Draco's back, and narrowed lethally.

"Potter's staring daggers at me, isn't he?"

At that, she couldn't help but laugh. "Yes."

"So, Snape thinks he can get us into the church tomorrow night."

Hermione shifted to face Draco fully. "What? Really?"

"Well, he won't be going in with us, but he's going to keep campus security out of the immediate area by requesting use of the grounds for a psychology experiment."

Her brow furrowed. "What? Like that American film, with the big, creepy house?"

Draco shrugged, nodding. "Suppose so."

"How _are_ we getting in?"

"He's going to bribe Filch for the keys."

Hermione felt her eyes widen. _Snape must really want to know what the point of all this is, _she thought. "Wait, you mean Filch and Hagrid had the keys to the church all this time?"

"No, actually, churches didn't lock back when—so the faithful could come and pray, or seek sanctuary whenever—what they have is a key to the padlock for the chain holding the doors closed."

"Oh." Well, now Hermione felt stupid. She should have known that, she realized, but then, she reasoned, she wasn't thinking very clearly, as of late. "Right, of course."

"He'll give us the key, and sort of stand guard outside with Weasel-bee while we—"

"Can you please stop calling him that?" She asked with an exhausted air as she rolled her eyes.

"Does it bother you?"

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she considered her response. Was he asking because he simply wanted to know, or was he trying to gauge any feelings she might still have toward her ex-boyfriend? "A little."

Draco smirked. "All the more reason for me to keep at it, then."

The gravely pitch of his voice brought her the pleasant realization that he was flirting. She didn't bother arguing with herself about enjoying this simple moment. After last night's discussion—oh dear _Lord_, was that only last night—she couldn't deny that they were, in fact, in a relationship. The thought made her aware of the weight of Harry's gaze on them.

Sure, she and Draco might be together, they just couldn't let anyone else know, at the moment. After all this madness was finished, she'd sit Harry down and break it to him as gently as she could manage.

Draco's brow furrowed. "What are you thinking so hard about?"

Her eyes widened. She didn't realize she'd fallen quiet for longer than the space of a heartbeat. "Nothing, um . . . ." She laughed softly and shook her head. "I simply never thought I'd end up in one of those situations that could make me want a normal life back."

"Sure, like _you've _ever been normal."

She knew he was teasing her, but she indulged his silliness. "Oh, you shut it!"

"Are you two quite finished?" Harry's voice cut in.

Before she even moved to look at him, she could tell by his tone that he was irritated. Shifting against the ground to turn her attention to Harry, sure enough, she found she was correct.

"Yes, yes, we're finished," she said with a sigh. As she stood, her gaze locked with her best friend's, the symbol on the gravestone before her flashed through her mind.

Biting her lip, she glanced at the stone, and then back to Harry. "Come here."

"Oh, joy," Malfoy said in a miserable mutter.

She shushed him under her breath as Harry approached. "I think," she said, though she wasn't entirely certain of the words she was about to speak, "this is where one of your ancestors is buried."

"Oh, right, he's got two here." Draco stood, brushing himself off—oblivious to the flicker of aggravation across Potter's face.

Harry's brows shot up. "So you thought, what? That we'd have some morbid, post-mortem family reunion?"

Groaning, she dropped her head back for a moment before meeting Harry's gaze. "No, stupid. Look, this may be a long shot, and I know my ancestor isn't here, but after being close to the altar—something I'm sure left an impression in her mind 'til the day she died—I started to connect more with her memories."

He plastered a palm against his face and then let his hand slip downward, pulling his expression into an unpleasant grimace for a quick moment. "So you want me to connect with someone who's last recollection is being brutally murdered?"

"Well, no. I mean yes . . . um, sort of, but not really."

Frowning, he looked to Malfoy.

Mystified, Draco shrugged. "I'm as lost as you are."

Again, Hermione groaned. "No, listen. Because of proximity and similar moments, or emotions, or whatever, we've been able to see what they've been through, right? So, maybe if we can see more, we can put together what Voldemort was after that much faster, and not have to wait, hoping there's a clue in there," she nodded toward the church.

Draco tsked, stuffing his fists into his trouser pockets. "And here I thought you were finally being brave about that."

"Bravery can go hang," she said, a soured expression puckering her mouth. "I'm thinking about how much time we're wasting."

"What choice do we have but to wait, Hermione?" Harry shook his head, waving a hand in Snape's direction. "No one else is going to believe us, he's the _only_ one in a position to help. And this little stroll down memory lane you want me to take? After what I felt last night, you'll excuse the bloody hell out of me if remembering anything else like that scares me _more_ than falling through rotted floorboards, or something!"

His voice had raised with each word, though he'd not realized. She could tell from his face that he didn't know he was yelling until he'd finished speaking.

Yet, even so, Harry snapping at her was such a rare occurrence that whenever it happened, she felt a sharp, jagged response. Unaware she'd moved, she flinched and took a step back from him.

She blinked, her eyes watering. "O—okay, Harry. I'm sorry," she said, her words a soft tumble of sound.

Sighing, Harry tipped his head back, rolling his eyes as he reached out. Draping an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her into a hug.

"I'm sorry, too. I didn't meant to snap," he whispered, his lips moving against her hair. "Look, we're all just so wrung out, it's hard not to."

"I know." She focused on breathing steady, on his warm, familiar closeness. Hermione was so glad to have Harry with her in this that she suddenly couldn't recall how she'd managed these weeks without him.

Though, as she heard Draco clear his throat, she wondered if that notion took away something from the fact that Draco_ had_ been with her; had gone through this insanity right alongside her. That if not for him, she'd have likely lost her mind in the first few days.

She and Harry shifted, pivoting, as a unit to look at Malfoy.

"I think the professor is getting impatient."

"Quite," Snape said from across the churchyard.

"Right, sorry." Harry dropped his arm from Hermione and the three started across the sparse lawn toward where the professor and Ron stood.

Halting, Harry's shoulders drooped. He didn't like what he was thinking, but Hermione had been having a rough go of it before he'd even known anything was wrong. Perhaps he was being unfair to her.

Spinning on a heel before he could change his mind, he jogged back to the gravestone she thought belonged to his ancestor.

"Harry?" His sudden movement startled her, and Hermione turned to see him lower himself to sit on his knees before the stone.

"You're right, Hermione," Harry said, pausing to force a gulp down his throat. "If there is something more we can find out, than we have to try. Right?"

She smiled, the expression equal parts appreciative and sad as she nodded. "Right."

"Bollocks," Snape muttered under his breath.

Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance, each fighting to hold in a laugh before they turned their gazes on the notoriously stuffy teacher.

Professor Snape's dark eyes narrowed at them. "It isn't as though I planned to stand here . . . _all_ day."

"If you have elsewhere to be, then by all means," Draco's snarky retort was accompanied by a dismissive wave of his hand.

Snape rolled his eyes, sneering. "So much like your father. You four, my office . . . eleven PM tomorrow."

"Eleven?" That sounded far too early to Hermione, given how late at night—or perhaps early in the morning was more apt a description—they'd been functioning recently. "Are you sure?"

"Very. People will still be about. We'll need to make a show of setting up the churchyard to conduct our . . . experiment."

She couldn't really fault him for the pitying look he gave her—she should've been able to sort out that much without his explanation. "Right, right. Of course."

Not caring to bid farewell, Snape simply turned and strode away.

"That one's sure a bundle of sunshine," Ron said, chuckling quietly as he watched the professor—whose gait was even impatient—before crossing the churchyard to stand behind Harry.

When all three had gathered close to him, Harry nodded. He didn't know exactly what to do, didn't know how to go about this connecting nonsense willingly. Frowning doubtfully, he reached out with a tentative hand to trail his fingertips over the worn symbol caved into the surface.

Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes, concentrating on little things he could recall from the nightmares. Not the sacrifice—God no, that was _awful_—but the way the air smelled, how the fabric of his vestments fit against his skin, on the landscape lacking the incongruous university buildings.

Something itched at the back of his mind . . . teasing. He shifted his focus, trying to catch sight of it, to glimpse the fleeting images.

Hermione pouted in worry as she watched Harry. He twitched, alternately shaking his head and nodding. She wanted to help him, though she didn't know how.

Reaching a hand toward him, she took a step. Just as quickly, fingers latched around her wrist, pulling her to a stop.

"Just leave him be," Draco whispered, though when she glanced at him over her shoulder, she saw his gaze still locked on Harry.

Her shoulders slumped as she nodded. They both pretended not to notice that he held her wrist, still. Ron was too focused on Harry to pay them much mind.

Minutes ticked by before Harry dropped his arm. Groaning, he sat back on his heels. "I'm sorry. I'm trying, and . . . and I think there's_ something_ there, but it just won't come. It's like I can see things, but when I try to really look, they're gone."

Upset with himself that he couldn't give them anything more solid, he turned to face them. Immediately, his attention shot to Draco's hand on Hermione's arm.

Eyes widening as she saw the way Harry set his jaw, she made a show of following his gaze. She pretended she was surprised to find Draco Malfoy's fingers curled around her wrist.

"Sorry," Draco blurted, snatching his hand back. "Don't make such a big deal, Potter. I was only keeping her from interfering with what you were doing."

Harry rolled his eyes, shifting his body enough to look back to the gravestone, but could still dart his gaze back to Draco if there was any suspicious movement.

He reached out again, jumping at a sudden, shrill sound in his ear.

Ron started. "Oh, right, that's me, sorry."

Draco, Harry and Hermione each held in exasperated sighs as Ron dug his mobile from his pocket.

"Romilda?" He was puzzled by the name on the screen, but then his expression softened and he cringed as he answered. "Hullo?"

Noting the way Potter jumped to his feet, and the instant tension in Granger's stance, Draco felt prompted to inquire in a whisper, "Who's Romilda?"

"Lavender's best friend," Hermione said, her voice low.

"I . . . I'm so sorry," Ron murmured, his voice thick. "Thanks for calling. I—I'd hate to have found out some other way. Is there going to be . . . ? Oh, okay. Sure, um, just call me when you know."

Harry and Hermione held their breath as they watched Ron end the call. The color drained from his face, and his phone slipped from numb fingers to land noiselessly in the grass beside his feet.

"She was with Lavender's parents earlier. The . . . ." Ron cleared his throat and tried again, his brow furrowing as his gaze flicked about, as though he couldn't decide where to direct his attention. "The police had come by."

Hermione's throat tightened and her vision blurred as she watched her friend's face—she'd never seen Ron look so lifeless. She didn't fight it when Draco slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side.

"Harry," Ron said, his voice cracking. "Oh, God, Harry, they found Lav's body."

Hermione's eyes drifted closed on the sight of Harry jumping to his feet to hug Ron. The weight of her lids forced her tears free as she turned beneath Draco's arm to burying her face against his neck, muffling a sob.


	28. Pushing Through

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Pushing Through

Barty wiped his brow, holding in a groan as he scrubbed the floor clean.

The creature stood off to the side, his head tipping left to right as he watched Barty work.

He didn't expect Riddle to help, yet Barty wished his master would find something else to focus on. He imagined he could feel the weight of that dark, unsettling gaze on his skin.

They had to move, he knew that. It wouldn't be long until they police found _something_ on the girl's body that would leave them here. He was certain he'd cleaned her so thoroughly, but he couldn't leave anything to chance. Any little scrap that showed she'd been in this place and the master's plans would be ruined. Again. He'd washed the walls, and doors, scoured every nook.

In his pocket was even a small collection of loose strands of dark-blonde hair she'd left behind. He'd assembled them into a thin lock, uncertain of what else to do with them.

Barty dunked the brush, the water in the bucket a mix of muddy suds and rusty-red liquid.

He knew the floor was clean by now. Yet, he couldn't stop, not yet.

The creature made a low, rumbling sound of disapproval. He was growing impatient.

"Soon, my Lord, we'll leave very, very soon, I promise," Barty said, lifting his gaze from his task briefly to see his master pacing erratically.

Yet every time he looked down, Barty could swear he saw more spots of blood and bits of tissue. He wondered if he wasn't hallucinating.

"Not clean enough, not yet," he said. He spoke low, afraid to let Riddle know that his mind might be breaking.

* * *

The following day seemed to pass in a strange, dull and hazy blur. By that morning, the university had been notified of Lavender's death. Professor McGonagall had graciously allowed friends of hers to take the day, if they felt such a thing warranted.

Draco had spent the time lounging in the common area of Gryffindor Hall, not paying mind to the bewildered looks he received from the residents. He'd turned off his phone, as it made dodging Pansy's dozen-and-one texts an hour asking where he was easier to ignore. His patchy sleep the last few weeks made dozing off, as he was doing now, so effortless he didn't even realize he was drifting to sleep.

Hermione and Harry had undertaken the task of filling in Neville on all that had happened. They hadn't wanted to involve him—the young man was much too sweet-natured to get wrapped up with this mess, as far as they were concerned. No, they'd made the decision to tell him so that he might help keep Luna and Ginny out of harm's way, should either of them decide to visit and check on everyone, in the wake of Harry's phone calls last night to share the upsetting news.

Ron . . . no one had seen Ron all day. He'd locked himself in his room last night when they'd returned from the churchyard and not made a peep, since. They still had no information on services for Lavender, but then none of them were surprised. According to what Romilda had told Ron, the Browns were a mess, barely able to string two words together. Mustering the focus to plan a funeral required more effort than they could probably manage.

Hermione fell into a slumped sitting position on the sofa, causing Draco to stir from his slumber.

"Sorry," she murmured, when he scowled and blinked drowsy grey eyes at her.

"No, you're not," he said as he sat up and stretched.

She arched a brow, cracking a grin, though she hardly felt like smiling. "You're right. No, I'm not."

"Is it time, yet?"

She checked her phone. As they'd had no other course of action—Lavender was gone, but Crouch, Jr., and whoever guided him, were still out there, still after whatever secret Voldemort and Riddle shared—they stuck with their original plan. Tonight, whether the decision was wise, or achingly stupid, they were getting into that church.

Hermione ignored that a spot of cold formed in the pit of her stomach at the notion; at how quickly that ludicrous plan was coming to fruition.

"Soon; Harry's gone up to get Ron."

Draco's mouth pulled to one side as he appeared to puzzle over something. "Are you sure he even wants to be a part of this, anymore?"

Pouting, she shook her head. She hadn't the foggiest, but maybe it would keep him distracted from his pain for just a few hours. "I'm not really—"

"Because, honestly, who could blame him if he wanted out, now?"

Something in his tone struck her, and she turned to face him. "Why, Draco Malfoy, is that compassion I hear?"

His brow furrowed as he held her gaze, offering a shrug. "I'm cruel, not totally heartless, Granger. But honestly, if not for the fact that this lunatic is probably coming for _you_ soon, _I _wouldn't be mixed up in this, either."

Hermione's heart thumped and her cheeks warmed. "Careful, your compassion's showing, again."

"Hermione!"

They both started, sharing a quick, aggravated glance.

Her shoulders slumped as she turned on the sofa to look up at the second floor landing. There, Harry stood, his hands on the railing as his gaze shot from her to Draco and back.

"For fuck's sake, we weren't even doing anything," Draco whispered under his breath with an irritated chuckle.

She shushed him as she gave a minute shake of her head. "What's wrong, Harry?"

"Can you come help me? Trying to convince Ron to come out of his room and I'm not having an easy time of it."

"Don't know what you think I can do, but all right," she said, grumbling as she stood.

Draco's dark brows shot up into his pale hair. "Well, he probably thinks you can—"

"Oh, stow it, Malfoy," Hermione hissed, sparing a moment to snatch up a throw pillow and hit him with it before she loped off to join Harry at the top of the stairs.

Chuckling, Draco settled into the cushions, again. His eyes drifted closed and he prayed for just a few more moments of rest, as he imagined they had another sleepless night ahead of them.

"Why did you shout like that?" Hermione asked as Harry led her down the corridor of the men's wing.

Harry looked at her, a mystified expression etching his features for a moment. Then he broke into a grin. "No reason, really. I just like seeing Malfoy jump."

She smiled, halting for a moment. He always had a knack for knowing what to say or do to get a little cheer out of her, no matter what troubled her. "Thanks, Harry."

He slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to walk beside him. "Help me get Ron out of his room, and we'll call it even."

She furrowed her brow, but nodded. "I don't know what you think I can say that'll convince him to come out if he doesn't want to, but I'll try."

As they reached Ron's door, Hermione raised her hand to knock. The door creaked open, and Harry and Hermione reflexively backpedaled a step, moving as one.

It opened further, and there Ron stood, dressed all in black. Yet, not as though he was mourning, they each realized. In the black worn-out trousers, and turtleneck, he looked more like . . . .

"What are you wearing?" Hermione asked, chestnut eyes wide as her gaze roved over him.

"You look like a cat burglar," Harry said, just barely holding in a laugh.

Ron frowned, glancing down at himself. "What? We are sneaking in somewhere tonight, aren't we?"

They pair in front of him exchanged a glance.

"No, you're standing look out with Snape while _we_ sneak in," Harry started the explanation gently.

Hermione continued, "And we're there under a totally 'allowed to be there' premise. Dressing like we're breaking in somewhere will just look—"

"Suspicious and draw unwanted attention," Harry said, finishing the combined statement.

Ron's shoulders slumped as he looked from Harry to Hermione and back, again, a few times. "Honestly, you two should've been born twins. Fine, I'll change."

As quickly as the door closed, it sprang open, again. Ron's eyes were wide as he shook his head. "Sorry, I forgot to say. Rom—Romilda called a little bit ago."

Hermione felt the instant response of her throat tightening. "What'd she say?" She forced out the words, her voice thick. "How are Lavender's parents?"

"They're miserable! What'd you expect?" Ron immediately looked apologetic for snapping, but he powered on, once more shaking his head as he said, "They're not letting anyone outside of family attend the funeral, 'cept Romilda, of course. But they're uh . . . they're having a memorial service at the a banquet hall for her in a few weeks and we're invited to that, so . . . ."

"So?" Harry echoed, his eyebrows shooting up beneath his bangs.

"I told her we'd all be going." Ron's lips pulled into a thin line as he met Hermione's gaze. "That was right . . . wasn't it? That was okay?"

Her heart clenched at how lost he sounded. "Oh, Ron, of course it's right. We're _all_ going." She heard the catch in her own throat and pushed it away, plastering on a smile. "Now go get changed before someone thinks we're trying to pull a jewel heist."

Ron played along with the attempt at distraction. He rolled his eyes and nodded, closing the door as Harry chuckled.

* * *

Snape was about to give up, to lock his office and leave. He'd not heard from any of the students, though he couldn't say he was surprised to see that Granger and Malfoy hadn't been in class, today. Though, the thought that they may have changed their minds _without_ alerting him did make him bristle.

As he opened the office door to step into the corridor, he found the four standing out there.

He met each of their gazes in turn and then nodded. "Ready?"

"Yes," Malfoy, Granger and the Potter boy said in unison. The ginger-haired one only nodded, his face grim and set with determination.

"Good." He joined them, locking his door behind him and starting down the deserted corridor. "Code of conduct dictates the grounds will be . . . empty in one hour. We only need to put on a show until then."

The professor handed Draco a key, which the young man pocketed immediately. Snape then shoved off a black duffel bag to Ron without breaking pace.

"Oy," Ron said frowning. "Why do I have to lug this?"

"Putting on a show, remember? You are supposed to assist me. So, be . . . quiet and _assist_."

Harry and Hermione held in laughs at the exasperated look flitting across Ron's features.

* * *

Shacklebolt wiped a hand down his face. He was tired. Bone-tired, in a way he'd not felt in a long while. That meeting with the Browns was especially brutal.

Now he sat, hunched at his desk, looking over photos of the victim. He had no idea exactly what he was looking for, but the feeling that they were missing something right in front of their eyes nagged at him.

Research turned up nothing on the symbols. They were deemed fanciful gibberish; likely carved with some sick intent to make the killing _appear_ ritualistic and occult in nature. Was that purposeful misdirection to make the murder no longer fit the profile of a copycat killing?

He flicked his gaze toward Fudge's desk. It was rather late, the older gentleman had left hours ago. If Fudge knew his partner was letting this gnaw at him, he wouldn't be pleased.

Knowing Barty Crouch, Jr. had taken her from the campus grounds made no _actual_ difference when the man might as well be a ghost. Answers which only provided more questions were always a bad sign.

Apparently there was a _lot_ of sleep lost over the similar deaths eighteen years ago. Sleep deprivation hadn't served to help solve the case, or save any lives, then. Fudge never really spoke on it, neither did the other older officers who'd worked the Riddle case.

Despite their silence, Shacklebolt always had the impression that they were plagued by nightmares about the grisly killings to this day. That, he felt, more than anything other aspect, kept them quiet.

Picking up one of the photos, he held it delicately, the gleam of his desk lamp glinting off the surface. There was _something_, he felt it in his gut, he simply couldn't see it.

"C'mon, Lavender," he said to the image in a low, pleading whisper. "Help me find the man who did this to you."


	29. Twisted Revelation

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Twisted Revelation

Lucius looked up from the glass in his hand. There, in the doorway of his study, Narcissa stood.

She grinned, lightly, sweeping over to him. "Don't tell me you're still vexed that Draco didn't mention to you he has a girlfriend."

His eyes narrowed as he looked back to his glass. He hadn't told her about any of this mess with Crouch, Jr. reemerging. After losing her sister to Crouch's idol, Riddle, Lucius didn't want her to know that warped excuse for a man was still lurking about.

With what had happened to this Gryffindor girl at Crouch's hands, Lucius dreaded to think the horror of that year might start, again. The family and police were keeping that information from the public—_he_ only found out because he'd relentlessly badgered Fudge earlier that very evening. If possible, he would keep Narcissa from _ever _learning about it.

He wished he could be troubled by something as simple as Draco hiding a girl from the notoriously harsh scrutiny of Lucius Malfoy.

Offering her a wan grin, he leaned close as she bent to drop a kiss on his cheek.

"Cheer up about it, already, Lucius. There are worse things for young men to hide from their parents."

"That's hardly a comfort, 'Cissy," he said with a frown.

She chuckled. "Are you coming to bed? It's late."

He nodded, lifting the unfinished drink in his hand. "I'll be up in a moment."

Smiling, Narcissa gave a nod of her own in response and stepped from the room.

Only after he heard her footfalls on the staircase did he turn back to his desk. He knew he shouldn't do what he was about to—just as he shouldn't have told Draco—but the investigation had moved off the campus in its manhunt.

If Crouch was still targeting the University, he had to warn _someone_.

Glancing toward the door, assuring himself once more that Narcissa was upstairs, well and truly out of ear shot, he picked up the phone.

* * *

Hermione winced at the pained groan of ancient hinges as Draco and Harry pushed open the doors of the church. Flicking on her torch, she stepped in. That unsettling familiarity from her dreams of the bride—_Cerys_, she reminded herself—brushed at the edges of her mind.

She was only vaguely aware of the sounds of them forcing the doors closed behind them. None of them were pleased with the notion of being shut in, but if anyone had any reason to stroll about the campus grounds right now, they wouldn't be treated to the telling sight of the creepy little church's doors standing open.

Hermione covered her mouth and her nose with her free arm, trying to get accustomed to the thick, musty air little by little.

"Well, get a move on," Draco said in a whisper, moving the beam of his own torch about idly.

Dropping her arm as she spun on a heel, she shined her beam upward, lighting on her face so he could see her displeased expression. "What? Why am I playing tour guide?"

"Because you're the only one who has memories of walking around inside here?" Harry hated siding with Malfoy, but in this, he saw the legacy brat's logic. Hermione would've have seen it to, he realized, were she not so blinded by her desire to be, literally, _anywhere_ else right now.

"Fine," she said, her voice a low hiss as she started walking forward. "But I only know a little bit of the place, okay? It's not like I've got the floor plan in my head. Beyond the sanctuary here, and their personal chambers, we're winging it."

She inspected the floor before moving. There was no way to know how complicated, or simple, this place might be, but their footprints in the layer of dust appeared obvious enough to lead them back to the door, so they needn't make any markings to keep from getting lost.

As she crept forward, her light landed on the altar. There was an odd, hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach as she neared the dais. How long had it been since this church had _really_ been used as a church, rather than a convenient mask for Voldemort's lunacy?

"We, uh, we should check the tabernacle," she shined the beam onto the ornately craft-d wooden cabinet at the back of the sanctuary area. "That, there, Harry . . . . I'll check the altar."

"And I'll just stand here looking pretty, I suppose," Draco said, his tone sour.

"You can come over here and check the other side, snarky-pants."

As he stepped up, ran his fingers along the dusty edge. "What do we expect to find in glorified coffee table? A secret compartment?"

She shrugged as she knelt down, examining the altar's underside. "Actually, sort of."

"Really?" Harry's voice echoed from the other side of the dais, disbelief coloring his words.

"Well, sort of, like a niche or something, really. Traditionally, churches sanctify an altar by placing a relic in it."

The sound of the tabernacle's cabinet door creaking open filled the space. "O . . . kay, a big, moldy stone lump, fantastic. Pretty sure that's nothing we're looking for."

Hermione held in a laugh at the quiver of revulsion in Harry's voice. "Considering the chain of events, yeah, I'd figure that was the communion bread, once upon a time."

"Yes, and now it's a _wildly_ overdue science project."

"Granger, when you say relic, what exactly do you mean?"

She frowned, continuing to run her fingers along the bottom, behind the wide, pillared legs, looking for any incongruous divot. "Well, a relic—in this context—is a . . . fragment of a holy person."

Draco lowered himself close to the floor of the dais, peering at Hermione beneath the altar. "You're telling me we're looking for saintly bits under here?"

"Bits?" She echoed, deliberately misinterpreting as Harry laughed in the background. "I should hope not. No, probably a finger bone, or a lock of hair. Something small enough."

Nodding, Draco bit his lip as he shook his head and went back to checking for nooks. "Okay, maybe I should be more to the point when I ask you things. _Why_ are we looking for this relic?"

"I don't know, really. It's just a hunch, but if Voldemort thought as highly of himself as it seems he did, he might've removed the relic and replaced it with—"

"With his own_ bits_? How, exactly, would that help us?"

"Really, I'm hoping he likely replaced it with something that _might_ help. He must've sorted out what he was doing before _actually_ doing it, since the sacrifices were so calculated." She gave up, slapping a palm against the altar and standing. "Damn. Anyway, yes, I thought, _perhaps_, since it's such a sacred thing, maybe he'd have put whatever he'd plotted the ritual on in there."

"Okay, it's . . . not." Draco's voice sounded a tinge unsettled as he stood, wiping his fingers on his shirt. "Saintly bits still in place. Shall we move on?"

Hermione asked as Draco stepped to the other side of the altar and slipped a hand around her elbow to start pulling her toward the corridor, "What was it?"

He frowned, as they all stepped carefully around the toppled baptism font. "Finger bone, I _think_. And I find your sudden morbid fascination a bit disturbing."

She sighed as he relinquished his hold on her and she started toward the first chamber. "We're in a desecrated church that was used as a cover for a heretical cult and a blood sacrifice ritual. There isn't any _single_ part of that scenario which isn't morbid."

The search of the personal chambers turned up nothing, as well. Though Hermione felt certain which one belonged to the . . . which one belonged to _Cerys_. Despite how Spartan and similar each room was—despite the dizzying, disorienting effect of the narrow, elongated corridor making her feel turned about each time she reemerged from one of the chambers.

But then, she glanced at Malfoy, and even in the meager illumination, she could make out the suddenly alert look on his face. He recognized it, too—Cerys' chamber was where the memory they'd shared took place.

The bob of his Adam's apple as he forced a gulp down his throat spoke volumes.

"You okay?"

He glanced at her. "Fine, yeah. I just . . . every time we come up to something that proves that all this is real, I'm a little—" He cut himself off as he flicked the beam of his torch around the chamber, following it with his gaze. "I don't know."

"Now you know how I felt when I saw the symbols in that room," Harry said, backpedaling out the door to allow them space to exit, as well.

When they reached the end of the corridor, Hermione groaned, thumping her fist against the wall.

"Hey, now," Draco said, catching her hand in his. "Careful, this place might come down on our heads if we're not careful."

She tugged on her arm, but he held tight. When Harry wasn't looking, Draco lifted Hermione's hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles.

"I'm okay." She mouthed the words and he let go.

Harry had already turned and started back down the corridor when a sudden shout from Hermione made him jump.

Ron started at a jagged, discordant sound coming from the weighty bag Snape had him carry. The professor greeted his alarm with a bored scowl.

From the bag, Snape dug the most antiquated mobile phone anyone Ronald Weasley's age had ever had the privilege to see. He arched a brow as he watched the older man.

Snape paused in bringing the phone to his ear. "You may have noticed I am not a fan of . . . modern convention."

Ron only nodded, forcing his attention to playing look out, once more.

Whirling on a heel, Harry felt no remorse whatsoever about shining the light of his torch in her face. "What?"

"The sacristy," she said, excited—as though that was explanation enough.

Harry repeated, and this time, Draco joined him, "What?"

Hermione looked from one to the other before sighing and shaking her head. She took off down the corridor at a jog, leading them back to the sanctuary area.

"The sacristy. It's a little room where the priest would prepare before giving service." She shook her head at her own oversight, but then it'd been years since she'd been to a church service, and she'd never been particularly vigilant when she had attended. "I didn't even think to look for it, because everything else was out in the open."

"Where?" Harry flicked his torch's beam about the far walls.

"No, no, it'd be behind the sanctuary. Look for a door in the walls behind, or to the side of, the dais."

"Like that one?" Draco asked, moving toward an outline in the wall before he was even certain the other two had turned their attention to him.

"I think so," Hermione said, reminding herself to breathe.

Harry stepped past them to pull the door open. The air of the room wafted out, thicker and mustier that in the main body of the church. Waving a hand in front of his face, he stepped inside.

"You want to see this!"

Exchanging a glance with Draco, Hermione nearly stumbled in her hurry to get through the door. She stopped short in the entryway, not even sorry that Draco bumped against her back.

"Oh, God." She blinked several times, in disbelief of what she saw. Someone—and she knew they were all perfectly aware who that someone was—had drawn interwoven circles on the floor. None of them needed to look at the pictures from the secret room to know they'd be a match to the etchings on its ceiling.

The ugly, rust-red hue of them raised goose bumps along her arms. "Is that . . . ?"

"I think so. He probably took the hearts and blood in here after killing them," Draco said, his voice soft. "That was probably how he completed each sacrifice. Granger?"

She couldn't take her eyes off the unsettling discovery. "Hmm?"

"What if we've been looking at this wrong?"

Shuddering, she pulled her gaze from the floor to look at him. "Why do I feel like we keep saying that?"

"No, I mean . . . we're looking at the sacrifices as one, big ritual. But what if it's not? What if each one is an individual ritual and they were tied into one to create, I don't know, some larger specific result."

Hermione felt sick, suddenly, her stomach twisting. She clamped a hand over her mouth, willing the nausea away. When she was certain she could speak without heaving, she said, "I understand now."

"Hermione, you okay?" Harry looped his arm around her shoulders, steadying her—she'd not even noticed she was wobbling.

"Yeah, I just feel really stupid. We should have seen this as soon as we realized he was _consuming_ the hearts." She drew a calming breath and let it out slowly before going on. "In ancient cultures across the world, there's a belief that by eating one's heart, you gain their strength. Their . . . life, really. And he said—he said in that dream you had that he wanted to become_ more_."

A ball of ice dropped into Draco's stomach. "So we're saying what? He was consuming their lives to live_ longer_, maybe?"

"Wait, wait," Harry said, shaking his head. "Are we _actually _talking about an immorality ritual?"

"By sheer definition . . . ." The words fell numb from Hermione's lips, but she couldn't help it, she was focused on the facts before her now—that was the only way she could keep functioning. "The kind of unnatural longevity it looks like he was trying to achieve would make him no longer human."

"Then, what _are_ we saying, Granger?"

She couldn't remember a time in her life before this moment when she'd wished so much her hunch was wrong. Biting her lip for a moment, she found that she had to force herself to speak.

"We're saying . . . we're _saying_ Voldemort was trying to become a god."


	30. Semblance of Order

**I apologize for posting this chapter so late in the day. I'd planned on doing it this morning, but rl said "Nope." :/**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty**

Semblance of Order

"A _god_?" Snape said, his tone rich with doubt as he met Hermione's gaze over the rim of his paper coffee cup. "Even _if_ gods existed, I don't think such a thing . . . is possible."

She rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her own coffee and setting down the cup. They sat in the basement of Gryffindor Hall, discussing the grisly discovery—or, more precisely, she and Snape discussed it. Draco was content to observe in silence, while Harry and Ron busied themselves with replacing the wall panels, since the plan of leaving the hidden room open had been a complete and utter bust.

"I'm not saying he would've _actually_ become a god, I'm saying he _thought_ he could."

"I think that's what his whole thing about Cerys was," Draco said, his tone thoughtful.

Hermione tried not to make much of the way he wouldn't look up at her. She knew he didn't want her to see the worry in his face. "How do you mean?"

Draco stirred his coffee idly, staring into the cup. "The ceremony where Voldemort cut the symbols into her arms, remember?"

She shuddered, taking another warming sip of coffee. "Been trying to forget, thanks. But yes, and I think I follow. He put _their _symbols on her, and then started the sacrifices. Probably even did it in order of placement. I remember, her arms still hurt from the cuts healing, so in his mind, he was sort of using her to bind them, right? That's why he saved her for last."

"I's a good thing magic isn't real," Ron said as he and Harry came over to join them—deciding replacement of the panels was enough, the planks of wood from inside the corridor's entry were still hidden behind the trophy display.

"That a general observation, or specific to this mess?" Hermione asked, her eyebrows arching at him.

"Specific," he shrugged, picking up his cup for a quick sip. "Think about it. If, say, Voldemort didn't get to complete it, and he was trying to kind of store the potential energy, or whatever, in Cerys? Cerys gets away, Voldemort dies, what happens to the energy he was trying to store? It'd just go down her line, wouldn't it?"

A sour expression pinched his face as he reached for a sugar packet, oblivious to the rest of the group staring at him, waiting for him to finish speaking his mind.

"So, if it went down the line, right, then Riddle comes along, he kills another eleven people, thinking 'Mione's mum, or aunt, or cousin, or some-other-relation is the logical last one, but that didn't happen, either. That brings us to not eleven sacrifices, and then twelve with the binding element to bring them together, but the original eleven, _then_ Riddle's eleven, so twenty two lives. I'm saying that if this ritual _could_ work, and whoever Crouch is helping managed to complete it, he'd be absorbing the lives of not twelve people, but twenty four." He nodded to whatever was going on in his head, blinking hard. "If—if we count Lav in as a sacrifice."

Hermione didn't know if the sudden, unsettling chill raising goose bumps on her arms was due to Ron's words or his tone.

"Do you think we should tell someone about what we found in the church?"

That Harry was the one to ask this made her eyebrows shoot up. He was usually sharper than this.

"No," Draco said, his tone soft. "Even if we did, there's no way to explain a tie between Voldemort and Riddle in any sort of way that the police could do anything about. They'd think we were mad. The symbols in the room could've been carved by people who maybe broke into the church back when, saw the mess in the sacristy and decided to play some sick joke on anyone who might find it."

"And what would we say about why we knew we'd find something there?" Hermione cringed inwardly, wishing she'd waited at least a few heartbeats before tacking onto Draco's words; she didn't want Harry feeling like she was ganging up on him with Malfoy, of all people. "We could get in a lot of trouble. And what about Snape? We only got in there because of him, what if he lost his job because he was trying to help us?"

Snape, who'd been quietly watching the chatter—amused that he should be drawn into a situation such as this _after_ abandoning his pursuit of the paranormal—met and held Hermione's gaze for a moment. "Thank you, Miss Granger. I did not know you were . . . so considerate."

"Well," she said, opting for a bit of terrifying honesty, "Professor Snape, you scare the living daylights out of me, but you're a brilliant man. I don't know if you're a great mentor, but your students learn everything you mean to teach them."

Draco finally lifted his gaze to hers, smirking. "That's 'cause we're afraid not to."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself, comforted at the clear break in tension when Ron and Harry joined in. Snape's mouth twitched side-to-side—no one was certain if this was an amused expression, or not—before he finished off his coffee in one, long swig.

"Laughed at by my two best students, I think that's . . . my cue to leave," the professor said as he stood. "Oh, Mr. Malfoy, I received a call from . . . your father."

Draco's dark brows rose into his pale hair. "My father? What about?"

"After what happened with Miss Brown, he wanted to warn someone that Crouch might target the school for his next . . . victim. Can't _really_ advise the police on a hunch based on information of which he is not in possession in any legal way, can he?" He met each of the young men's gazes in turn as he went on, "If you all _truly _believe what you've experienced is connected to Riddle, and this Voldemort character, then . . . I suggest keeping a close eye on Miss Granger until this matter is . . . resolved. Good evening."

The four remained motionless, barely even breathing, Hermione thought, as they watched Snape turn on a heel and disappear up the staircase.

Ron shook his head, forcing a gulp down his throat. "My God, even when he's being nice and helpful, that man is terrifying."

Hermione and Draco both shrugged, each picking up their cups for a sip as they replied in unison, "Told you."

"Oh, but he told me something while you guys were in the church," Ron said, forgetting until Snape's disquieting presence was gone. "He looked into the altar. Seems that the masons who constructed the university buildings put it in there."

Hermione, Harry, and Draco all exchanged a curious glance. "Why on earth did they do that?" she asked.

"Well, seems there's a lot of superstition at construction sites even back when, anyway, they tried to break it up, but every time things would go wrong, and the bloody thing would be no worse for wear."

He paused to stretch, his body weary, but he was more than happy to stay here, distracting himself. Ron was positive he'd rather stay awake for the next week straight than risk falling asleep and have some terrible nightmare about how Lavender died.

"So," he said, swallowing a yawn, "they put it in the unfinished storeroom here, and just closed it off. Slytherin and Gryffindor were the first residence halls on campus, the other two were built later, as the student body grew. That's why their floor plans are identical. The tunnel was only meant for a convenient way to bring supplies from one storeroom to the other, in case one was running low on something the other had in stock, or if there was inclement weather, or something."

"But because they sealed off the room, the tunnel was useless, so the school just ignored it even existed," Harry concluded, chuckling when Ron rewarded him with an _on-the-nose_ gesture.

"Oh my God, I've got it! Riddle put the symbols in the room."

Draco's eyes narrowed as he considered Hermione's assumption. "How can we be sure?"

Brown eyes rolling, she shrugged. "Okay, we can't, but hear me out. Even if he didn't do it, maybe his followers did, not as a posthumous tribute, but at his behest. We're assuming Riddle managed to channel Voldemort, somehow, right?"

She paused, waiting for them to nod, assuring herself they were all paying attention. "Okay, now Voldemort didn't do the sacrifices _and_ consume the blood and hearts in the same place. He sacrificed his followers on the altar, and then completed the ritual by consuming their . . . their _offerings, _for lack of a better term, in the privacy of the sacristy. That's why he had those circles there. Riddle never sat around and consumed the hearts and blood at the murder scenes, did he? He'd have risked getting caught."

"So he brought them to the room, consumed them under the circles, emulating Voldemort as closely as he could?" Harry's eyebrows had shot so high they nearly touched his hairline.

"She's right, that all makes sense." Ron felt the weight of Draco's and Harry's gazes on him over his choice of words. "Within context to the situation," he said quickly, holding up a hand.

"And we know Crouch was on university grounds, he might've been here for a while, so that's probably who left the cloth we saw on the altar that day we took the pictures." Hermione felt better, having some semblance of order, but the relief wasn't much, given the circumstances.

"And he's who replaced that window brick from the _inside_," Harry added. "Wait, he's been missing for eighteen years, hasn't he? Do you think he was here, the entire time?"

"Living in that room, you mean?" Hermione felt her stomach flip.

"How often did anyone even enter that storeroom in Slytherin?" Draco darted out his arm, tapping the back of her hand "Remember the marks on the floor around that door? That was probably him moving the shelves over the door whenever he left, so no one would stumble over it."

Her face fell. "Oh, God, which means Crouch was the one who banged on the wall that night."

Harry frowned, his expression both thoughtful and disturbed. "Well, it all really falls into place, doesn't it?"

For a few mind-numbing minutes, no one spoke. They sat, staring at the floor, the walls, into their half-empty cups—anywhere but at one another as the points of their conversation bounced around in their heads.

Hermione broke the silence as she stood and gave a long stretch. "What time is it?"

Ron pulled his mobile from his pocket, blinking regrettably bleary eyes at the screen. "2:46."

She groaned, her head falling back. "We have _got_ to get some sleep."

"I think they'll understand if we take tomorrow's classes, too, Hermione," Harry said, his voice apologetic as he nodded toward Ron.

"Oh, no." She shook a finger at him. "We're out of sorts enough, I am not—_not_—missing another day's classes on top of probably not having a single correct note from the last three weeks."

All three young men stood, startling her.

"What are you all—?"

"Snape_ just_ said we have to keep an eye on you," Draco said, folding his arms across his chest in a way that she thought was a challenge to her to _try _arguing with him.

"So, what? You're all going to camp out on the floor of my room?"

Harry, Draco, and Ron took a moment to look around at one another. Returning their attention to her, they nodded.

Hermione heaved a sigh, her eyes rolling. "Fine," she said from behind clenched teeth before whirling on a heel and walking to the staircase, acutely aware of the three sets of footfalls behind her.

* * *

"So, I've been thinking," Draco started as he sat on the floor, facing Hermione—Harry and Ron went to their rooms to get pillows and blankets for their _camp out_. "This memorial thing for your friend Lavender, I could go with you. You know if—if you want me to."

A spot of warmth bloomed in her chest, whether because of his un-Draco-Malfoy-like apprehension, or because of his offer, she couldn't be certain. Perhaps both.

"Really?"

He smiled, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he nodded.

Grinning, she cast a quick glance at the door and then shot forward, kissing him.

Draco knew they only had a moment, so he took advantage. He caught her before she could pull back, and tilted his head a bit to nibble on her bottom lip. Yet, as she leaned into him, he retreated.

"Ah-ah," he said, chuckling as he tapped a fingertip against her mouth. "Don't start what you can't finish."

She scowled, sitting back on her heels. "Not really my fault." Her eyes rolled and she forced a laugh. "I swear, when this is all over—"

"That a promise?" He winked at her, just as the door opened.

Hermione hid a smile, watching Ron and Harry enter the room. They each seemed only too happy to give Malfoy a spare pillow and blanket . . . by throwing the items at him.

"Gryffindor manners," Draco said, his tone a mix of exhaustion and mild irritation as he shook his head.

* * *

She tossed and turned, images of Cerys and the bloody symbols on her arms, of the circles on the floor of the sacristy playing behind her closed eyelids. The sounds of shallow breathing and even some light snoring filled the room. For a moment, she amused herself with the notion of looking to see which one of them was the snorer.

_Please, don't let it be Draco, _she thought, a soundless laugh on her lips.

Opening her eyes, she peeked out, over the edge of the bed. Draco was nearest—she wagered he probably shifted over after Harry'd fallen asleep. And she was grateful he, in fact, was _not_ the snorer.

Sighing, she pushed back her covers and climbed out of bed. The boys were restless sleepers, all of them. With a small smile, she circled the room, pulling their covers up around them. She knew the gesture was a very Mother Hen thing to do, but they were only here because they were all worried about her.

And Ron was the snorer.

"Figures," she whispered, shaking her head as she at least reached Draco.

She knelt down, brushing his hair out of his eyes with gentle fingertips. At her touch, he stirred and mumbled something in his sleep.

She righted his blanket and then sat back on her heels, watching the three of them sleep, wishing she could be so lucky. She really _did_ want to go to class in a few hours.

The sound of her door creaking open behind her sent a chill down her spine. Hermione drew in a breath, but her scream never came as a hand clamped across her lips and she was dragged backward.


	31. A Wrong Righted

**Chapter Thirty-One**

A Wrong Righted

Hermione thrashed, struggling against the arms that held her as she was carried through the door of Gryffindor Hall.

After she had been pulled from her room, a second person—visibly exhausted and disheveled, and wearing ragged clothing—had grabbed hold of her legs, assisting in lugging her down the staircase. She guessed that was probably Barty Crouch, Jr. Which meant the person holding her, the one clamping a hand across her mouth, was whoever guided Crouch's actions in kidnapping Lavender; whoever _killed_ her.

Whoever was so insistent on completing Voldemort's ritual.

She wrested a leg free and kicked at him, catching Barty in the jaw with her heel. He let out a grunt, losing his hold on her. The moment offered no reprieve, as her captor merely spun with her in his arms, turning her around so that he dragged her backward. Her flailing kicks resulted in nothing more than dull, rustling thumps as her feet hit the grass.

He held her still, iron-grip unfazed, and she froze a moment. Why was he so strong? Her stomach flipped and her skin grew clammy, aware that he had her out quite a bit in the quad, already, as she wondered . . . .

Perhaps he was so strong because there _was_ something to this ritual mess, after all.

_Or I'm_ weak_ from lack of nutrition and sleep_, she hoped, renewing her struggle.

Barty caught her legs unsteadily, carrying her further from safety.

"Master, I don't understand," he said, his words a breathy whisper as they entered the churchyard. "It's dangerous out in the open like this! Why are we taking her so far when your ritual chamber was_ right_ there?"

_Wait, _his _ritual chamber? _Hermione could only listen, so worn from her struggles and lack of sleep that she wasn't sure how much longer she could put up a fight. Did Crouch think the other man _was_ Riddle?

"All in time," the voice from behind her—strangely discordant, making her cringe—assured him. "Best to finish this where I began."

The surety of the words filled her with fear. She could see where they were, knew their destination. And . . . he didn't say where _it_ began . . . . _He said where _I _began. _A jolt shot through her, like shock of cold, and she screamed behind the fingers across her mouth, struggling harder in their grasp.

"Feisty thing," Barty observed as the arched doorway of the church appeared over their heads.

"As was the first one," the voice said, a rich, twisted chuckle sounding.

* * *

Draco awoke, blinking groggy eyes around Hermione's darkened room. He could've sworn he heard a muffled . . . _something_ a few minutes ago.

He sat up, gaze settling on the empty bed. Alert in an instant, he shot to his feet.

"Potter, get up!"

Harry mumbled something, waving dismissively at him. Ron stirred in the corner, pulling himself up and rubbing a fist against his eyes.

Biting his lip to hold in a frustrated groan, Draco shook his head. "Granger's gone!"

Ron stood, wobbling as he fought with his blanket. "Maybe she went to the toilet?" As the words left his lips, he glanced out the window. "Or not! Someone's going into the church."

"The church?" Harry echoed, his voice cracking as he scrambled to his feet.

Ron dug his mobile from his pocket. "Go, _go_! I'm calling the police."

Draco and Harry didn't wait for further discussion, both turning and bolting for the door.

* * *

In a dizzying whirl, Hermione found herself staring at the altar. Yet it looked nothing like it had when she'd been here only a few hours ago. A satin sheet had been draped over the ancient surface, and ropes lay across it.

The hand at her mouth slipped away and she was turned again. The scream building in her throat died on her lips as she found herself staring into the face of Tom Riddle.

Crouch took advantage of her surprise, snatching her off her feet to deposit her upon the altar as Riddle bound her limbs.

The face was _Riddle_ . . . the same face she recalled from the case files, from archival news footage played every few years. But his eyes were _wrong_.

Yet she recognized them.

"Voldemort," she said, the whisper of disbelief drifted from her lips before she even realized she'd spoken.

Crouch was distracted, cutting away her shirt. The glint of the knife he used caught Hermione's attention.

"You know me?" Riddle—no, _Voldemort_—said, his tone soft as a cruel smile curved his lips.

"Yes," she said her eyes welling with tears. This shouldn't be possible! Riddle's body stood before her with Voldemort's _soul _inside? "I know _everything_! I know you're using me to replace Cerys!"

"Fear not," he took the blade from Crouch, grabbing her arm tight with his free hand. "In a few moments, you will no longer be troubled by any knowledge, at all."

Crouch reached over her, clamping one hand across her mouth, as he pinned down one of her shoulders with the other.

She shrieked behind his fingers as the tip of the blade bit into her arm, dragging in hard lines along her skin. Shuddering in a nauseating mix of pain and fright, she barely had time to breathe before Voldemort was on to carving the next symbol.

A strange moment happened then. A droplet splashed her cheek. Forcing her eyes open, she looked up.

Crouch was shedding tears. He was _afraid_. And outside just now, he'd been confused.

A realization shot through her, and Hermione pressed her mouth against his hand. She snapped her teeth, biting down hard on one of his fingers.

He hissed, yanking away his hand.

"Barty," she said, noting the spark of surprise in his gaze that she should know who he was. "He's not your master! He's _not_ Riddle!"

Crouch tried to ignore her words. He might've succeeded, were it not that she validated the same worries he'd had since the moment the creature formed a voice.

"What does it matter who I am?" Voldemort said, his garbled words serene as he moved along the altar to place a ceramic bowl beneath Hermione's wrist. "I will be _more _and he will be rewarded."

* * *

"We need a distraction," Harry said, between breaths as he ran across the quad, keeping pace with Draco.

"Fine_, you_ stand about and think of something, _I'm_ not waiting!"

The ferocity in Draco's tone was enough to distract Harry from the situation for the briefest second. "Oh, God, there _is_ something going on between you two, isn't there?"

Exasperated with Potter's wayward attention, Draco cast a quick, disbelieving glance in his direction as they drew closer to the church. "Okay, fine, yes! Not like _this_ is the time to discuss it."

"I know that!" Harry nodded toward the side of the building. "I've got it. It'll only be a second or two, enough to catch them off-guard. You'll have time to run in and rush one of them. Maybe we can delay them just enough for the police to get here."

Draco nodded. Taking a page from Cerys' book, he dipped to snatch up a handful-sized chunk of shattered gravestone as they moved through the churchyard.

* * *

Barty shook his head, blinking hard as he pinned her other shoulder. "Doesn't . . . doesn't matter," he said, echoing his _master's_ words, his voice close to her ear. "I made the mistake! It's _my_ fault he's not Riddle!"

"Good man!" Voldemort smiled, the expression sweet and disturbing as he rounded the altar to start on Hermione's other arm. "Now stop your sniveling and hold her tighter."

Crouch winced, but did as he was told.

She cried out at the blade cut into her skin, once more. Drawing a deep, shaky breath, she tried again. "Barty, _please_! Stop helping him! The ritual's never worked because it—" She paused, shivering and holding in a scream as the blade sliced. "Because it _can't_! And it won't work now, that's why _Riddle _didn't come back! He won't become a god, he'll only be a _monster_!"

The sound of glass shattering broke across the room as a rock hurtled through one of the stained glass windows. An angry grimace twisted Voldemort's face as he looked up from his work.

He spun toward footfalls thudding toward him as Draco barreled into him. Voldemort's body crashed to the floor beneath Draco's, but the creature held tight to the blade in his hand.

Crouch started, but continued to hold her down, uncertain what to do. Perhaps the girl was right; knowing now that he _truly_ wasn't Riddle, could he really go on helping that . . . that _thing_?

Draco caught Voldemort's wrist in one hand, smashing the rock against the fingers gripping the knife. Voldemort grunted, baring his blood-stained teeth as his hold loosened.

"Bloody hell," Hermione said in an impatient, hissing whisper at Crouch's fidgety, unresponsive state. Raising her bound wrists to her mouth, she held in a whimper at the pain in her arms as she set to tugging at the rope with her teeth.

More crashing sounded and she looked up to find Harry charging in through the broken window. He was to her in a heartbeat, wrenching Crouch away from her.

"No, no, help Draco," she insisted when Harry reached for the ropes around her ankles.

Harry spun toward the scuffling, finding Draco struggling over a knife with . . . _Riddle?_

Voldemort had managed to pull the rock from Draco's grasp, dropping it to the floor. He pressed an arm against Draco's throat, keeping him at bay as they scrambled to reach the knife.

Draco pulled away, bringing his knee down on Voldemort's injured hand. The creature howled in pain, curling in on himself beneath Draco. Yet, as the young man reached for the blade, someone snatched it out from beneath this grasping fingers.

"He's _mine_," Harry said, his voice thick with rage and tears.

Draco had just enough time to throw himself back, out of the way, as Harry brought down the knife, burying the blade in Voldemort's chest.

A hideous shriek tore through the church. The strangled cry mixed with the sickening, squelching crunch of the knife being wrenched free and plunged down again and again.

Then, all at once, silence fell.

Harry trembled, afraid to let go of the knife. Afraid that if he moved, his parents' murderer would simply get back up.

Draco's gaze moved from Potter, to Riddle, and back as he rose to his feet and backpedaled to the altar. When he reached it, he turned, looking Hermione over for a breathless moment before assisting her with the ropes.

"That's it?" Disbelief edged her voice as she let Draco help her down from the altar.

He gave strange, wobbling, half-nod, half-shake-of-his-head gesture. "I think so," he said, shrugging out of his shirt and offering it to her.

She stepped over to Harry as she pulled on Draco's shirt. God, every movement of her arms sent a shock of pain through her. But, she reflected, at least she was alive to feel it.

"You okay?" She knelt beside him, looking into his face.

"Me?" he asked, sniffling as he laughed. "You're the one he was slicing to bits."

Wincing, Hermione reached out, closing Voldemort's eyes. Now that the lids were shut, she only saw Riddle. "You know what I mean, Harry."

At last he took his bloody hands from the knife, nodding as he met her gaze. "Yeah, I am. _Brilliant_, actually." He looked to Riddle's face again. "Never imagined I'd get to avenge them."

She offered him a small smile, biting her lip to keep from whimpering in pain as she slung her arms around his shoulders and hugged him. He didn't need to know that hadn't really been Riddle, did he?

"Oh, what the hell is _this_, now?" Draco's voice drew their attention, and they followed his gaze.

Before their eyes, Riddle's body shriveled. The skin puckered and receded, pulling against the bones. The shrinking flesh dissolved in patches to reveal bits the roughened, yellow-white surface beneath.

"I guess he's back to . . . being eighteen years decomposed," Hermione said, shuddering and turning her face away from the mess as Harry finally pulled the blade free, dropping it aside.

"God, you're a mess." She said with a quiet laugh—Harry honestly _looked_ like he'd just murdered someone—and quickly used the sleeves of Draco's shirt to wipe as much of the blood as she could from her best friend's face and hands. Her arms were such a mess there would be no reason for the police to believe all the blood on her shirt was anyone else's.

Draco walked over, assisting her to stand as the distant wail of sirens met their ears. "What'd we do about_ him_?"

They'd forgotten all about Crouch, she realized. He sat against the wall, crumbled, as he stared at Riddle's lifeless form.

"We don't do anything," she said, her voice numb as she carefully retrieved the blade and wiped the fingerprints from the handle before dropping it back to the floor. "This is _his_ fault, he brought him back. He pays for it, now."

To her shock, Crouch nodded, but didn't budge.

"Bloody hell," Ron's voice boomed as he rushed inside, Mr. Hagrid and Mr. Filch on his heels.

"What the—?"

"I did it," Crouch said, sounding both nauseated and child-like as he cut off Mr. Filch's question. "It . . . it was_ me_."

* * *

Shacklebolt offered Hermione a gentle smile as the girl's arms were wrapped by a doting paramedic. "Did Crouch say anything to you?"

"He said a lot of things, most of them completely mad," she said, pulling her bandaged arms beneath the blanket they'd draped across her shoulders.

Again he smiled, nodding as he glanced away from her. "I'm sorry, I know you've been through a lot. I'm only trying to sort out why he did all this."

Hermione nodded, looking about, as well. Shacklebolt's partner, Fudge, was off to one side, pestering Harry and Draco.

"I'm not sure why he thought it, but from the things he told me . . . I _think_ he believed if he completed Riddle's work, that Riddle would . . . come back."

Shacklebolt's face pulled into a disgusted cringe and she couldn't help but laugh. "Miss Granger, when you're feeling up to it, we will need you to come make an official statement about what happened tonight. Do you think you can do that?"

"Absolutely."

He nodded, taking a step back. "Good night, Miss Granger."

No sooner had he gone, than did Harry step into his place.

"You saved my life," she said, smiling at him.

"Well, yeah." He shrugged, grinning, as though the event was no big deal. "Can't take all the credit, your _boyfriend_ helped."

A surprised laugh bubbled out of her. "I'm so sorry, I wanted to wait 'til all this was over to tell you, but I _was_ going to, honest!"

"I understand."

"You do?"

Harry held her gaze for a silent moment before shaking his head and chuckling. "Actually, okay, no, I don't. I think you're completely mad for getting involved with him. But . . . when I saw how worried he was about you tonight, I realized maybe he's . . . not _all_ bad."

She smiled, warmed by the mention of Draco's concern for her.

"Do I need to have the 'hurt her and I'll kill you' chat with him?"

Again she laughed. "No, I'm pretty sure he's already clear on that."

After a few quiet moments, Ron and Draco drifted over, as well.

"So, Crouch _actually_ resurrected Riddle, huh?" Ron said in a whisper, aware that official authority figures still roamed.

"Seems so." Draco nodded.

"We're not even going to wonder how that happened, are we?"

The four shared a look. Shaking their heads, they said in unison, "No."


	32. In Remembrance

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

In Remembrance

Hermione dabbed the corner of her eye with a tissue as Romilda stepped down from the podium set in the middle of the banquet hall. Lavender's parents had spoken, already, as had the minister who'd presided over the girl's funeral.

In a strange way, her presence at the memorial felt wrong. She wondered if perhaps she was experiencing survivor's guilt. That she should be here, in front of Lavender's parents and friends, after being taken by the same man, after the potential of facing the same, terrible fate. And yet, she was saved.

She was here to cry, and celebrate, and . . . . And _live_. Biting her lip, her frame shook as she held in a sob.

Draco kept an arm around her shoulders, holding her as protectively close as was appropriate, given the setting. He ducked his head, speaking into her ear as Lavender's mum stepped up, once more. "Stop that."

Hermione blinked, sending fresh droplets to roll down her cheeks. "Stop what?"

"At this time," Mrs. Brown said, her voice thick and a touch raspy, "I would like to invite any of Lavender's other friends up to say a few words."

"Blaming yourself, again." Draco dropped a kiss on her temple. "Don't tell me you're not. I can read the look on your face."

There was a rustling and shifting from their table as Ron stood. Hermione exchanged a glance with Harry—who sat beside Ginny in mirror to her position with Draco—but he shrugged, looking surprised, as well. None of them had been quite clear on the Browns' views of Ron after his messy secondary school breakup with their daughter.

Luna made a strange peeping sound, but Hermione thought perhaps only their table heard it. They all turned to regard her, and she offered them a sheepish, teary grin from her seat next to Neville as she blew her nose.

Lavender's mother regarded Ron with a wide, pained smile, accepting his hug before he stepped up to speak.

He cleared his throat, but didn't look up. "I know everyone knows that Lavender and I had a pretty . . . shaky past. We weren't always very nice to one another." He paused, clearing his throat. "But there was never a time when I didn't think of her as my friend. I think I believed she'd always be there, ya know? It never occurred to me that she'd _not_ be here one day."

Ron paused again, drawing in a deep, steadying breath and letting it out slowly. "Even when we were mad at each other, even when I thought we hated each other, it was _always_ her. I didn't realize that until she went missing. I thought there would be a chance, I thought . . . one last time, I'd get to say what I should've told her a long time ago. But, then, that's what taking people for granted is, isn't it? I took Lavender's place in my life for granted and when I realized she might not be there anymore, I acted like a total . . . wretch to my closest friends. I lashed out at the people who care most about me, because I never got to say . . . ."

He trailed off, accepting a tissue Mrs. Brown held out to him and wiping beneath his eyes before he could continue.

"His nose is redder than his hair," Draco said in Hermione's ear.

She sputtered, holding in a laugh as she wiped at her own damp eyes.

"I never got to tell her that I loved her," Ron said, tears clogging his throat. "But I got to realize it, and that'll have to be enough."

Ron stepped down, but his path to the table was intercepted by Lavender's mum and dad, _and_ Romilda. Each took a turn, pulling Ron into a warm, painfully-tight-look hug, before letting him move on.

He took his seat, meeting each of his friend's—and Draco's—gazes, one-by-one. "How . . . how was that?"

Hermione reached out, placing her hand over his and giving it a gentle squeeze. "That was beautiful."

Draco made a mock-scoffing sound as he grabbed her wrist to pull her hand back, bringing a laugh out of Harry and Ginny.

"Uh-oh." Neville's voice drifted, soft, across the table.

The others looked over to see the seat beside him conspicuously empty. They turned as a unit to see Luna wandering up to the podium.

Hermione's jaw sagged as Harry said softly, "Oh, dear God."

Luna stepped up, her enormous, dreamy blue eyes sweeping over the gathering as she fussed with the collar of her black dress. "Lavender's favorite pudding was butterscotch . . . ."

Hermione turned in her seat, burying her face in the hollow of Draco's shoulder as Luna went on. It became clear, rather fast, she'd taken Mrs. Brown's invitation to speak _about_ Lavender quite literally, as the wispy girl listed Lavender's many likes, and dislikes.

Harry's hand on Neville's shoulder was all that kept him from sliding down in his seat to duck under the table.

Luna finished her lists, beaming at the room as she stepped down. Nearly every gaze in the room followed her as she flitted back to her table.

Draco rolled his eyes, wishing he had Hermione's luxury of hiding her face, as he felt the weight of the mourners' collective attention on their group.

* * *

After Luna's _gripping_ speech, Mrs. Brown approaching their group as the gathering drew to a close was possibly the last thing Hermione expected. She wondered if she was about to receive a guilt-laced admonishment for not going up to speak.

"I know it's been a long time since I've spoken to any of you," the woman said, tucking her long, dark-blonde curls—so very much like her daughter's hair—behind her ears as she faced Harry, Ron and Hermione, "but I understand it that if not for you, that . . . that man would be walking free, right now."

Draco shrugged, shaking his head as he glanced about. "It's like I'm invisible, over here."

Mrs. Brown looked up at him. "Oh, and you're Draco Malfoy? You too_, of course_, yes, I'm . . . I'm sorry. I just wanted to thank you all for being here today."

Hermione hid a frown as she elbowed Draco.

"What?"

Lavender's father came up then, tucking his wife into his side as she broke down in a fresh wash of hushed sobs. Mr. Brown nodded at them, in turn. "I'm certain Lavender would've been very happy to know you all attended. We're grateful to you, all. Please, excuse us."

After the Browns had joined Romilda and her parents, Hermione spun on a heel to meet Malfoy's gaze. "Don't _what_ me. You were rude."

"Please," he said, scowling. "I was only joking. Woman's a mess and even _she_ got that."

Ron nudged Harry's side, nodding in Draco and Hermione's direction. The two young men shared a laugh over the withering look she fixed on her boyfriend's face.

"Oh, maybe we should've warned you," Harry's tone was not remotely apologetic. "Now that you're dating her, she'll actually be _stricter _with you."

Draco's brows shot up. "So you have degrees of meanness? You could've given me a heads up about that, thanks very much."

Her gaze softening, Hermione mirrored his expression. "Would that change your mind about being with me?"

He took a long time mulling that over. "Well . . . ."

She feigned a gasp, reaching to slap his shoulder.

Catching her hand, he grinned. "I was going to say _no_."

"See?" Luna whispered to Neville as she waved a hand toward Hermione and Draco, feeling triumphant about her earlier observations of the couple. "Told you,_ balanced_."

Neville nodded, chuckling as he pulled Luna close, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

Harry and Ron turned away, sour expressions pinching their faces as Hermione stood on her toes to kiss Draco's jaw. Ginny rolled her eyes at their pointed, exaggerated reactions. "Honestly, big babies."

"Miss Granger," a booming voice broke into the light moment, and the group turned to face the speaker.

"Inspector Shacklebolt," Hermione said, smiling. "I didn't know you were here."

Her friends all regarded her with shock. The inspector_ was_ a rather large, relatively conspicuous figure.

Hermione spared a moment to get miffed about the sudden scrutiny. "Oh, sure, anyone else can get distracted, but when it happens to me you're all surprised?"

"Well—"

Whatever Draco might've said was interrupted by Hermione swatting his shoulder.

His jaw dropped. "Again with the violence, they could've at least warned me about that. _And_ in front of the police, no less. You're shameless."

Shacklebolt chuckled, relieved to see them in such good spirits, considering what they'd all been through. "The Browns invited me. I only wanted to ask how you were doing, and thank all of you for being so cooperative with all that happened."

"Of course."

They ignored that they knew the official story—that Crouch had stolen Riddle's remains, committing similar, occult-themed murders in his name in the psychotic and twisted hope of resurrecting the serial killer—was only partly true, and _mostly_ rubbish. There wasn't any way to explain what _actually_ went on without looking psychotic, and full of rubbish, themselves.

Eventually, Draco conveniently recalled the symbols carved into the grave stones. The confirmation that they matched the ones carved into the girls' arms only further validated both Crouch's perceived mental state, and his attempt at using some imaginary magical ability.

The identification of Crouch on the university security footage, and a lock of Lavender's hair in his pocket at the time of his arrest, made the case the very definition of open-and-shut.

Though, Hermione was still a tad unsettled by the ease with which the loose ends had tied themselves off.

"Where's your partner?" She darted her gaze behind the large man, looking for Fudge.

Shacklebolt grinned in spite of himself as he glanced about before leaning close to the group. "He wasn't invited," he said, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. "Seems he rubs people the wrong way."

Hermione and Draco nodded, the older gentleman's brusque temperament well-remembered.

"I just . . . wanted to say how glad I am that you're all okay."

She held in a frown, nodding politely as he bid farewell and strode away from them. Hermione _was_ okay, if one discounted the counseling sessions in which the university insisted she participate, to counter any possible post-traumatic-stress she might experience after what they referred to as her_ ordeal_.

She supposed it too much to ask they take under consideration she how maintained presence of mind and—according to that _official _story—kept Crouch talking long enough for help to arrive. Draco and Harry were being heralded as a heroes in the local paper, and Hermione found she oddly didn't hate that they were all being treated a bit like campus celebrities. At least Snape had taken their experience into account when grading their research project on Riddle.

Silver linings.

* * *

Draco paused in his reach to turn the key in the ignition. He shifted to face Hermione, his gaze moving over her.

Her brow furrowed as she noted his look. "What?"

He bit his lip, before replying. "I haven't asked, but how are your arms? Are they healing all right?"

"Hmm?" This seemed an odd time to remember, but then, she'd worn long sleeves for the last two weeks to cover the bandages. "Oh, actually, yes."

When he offered a doubtful eyebrow arch, she rolled her eyes.

"Fine, have a look."

She pulled up one sleeve, baring her arm. Already she'd downgraded from wrapping her arms to simple gauze pads and surgical tape. Pulling up the edge of one pad, she offered a peek at the new, reddish-pink skin.

"Fast healer?"

"It helped that the cuts weren't as deep as they looked. And you know, proper sleep and actually being able to eat."

"Those scars will be spectacular icebreakers, though," he said with a wink.

She frowned, pulling her sleeve back into place as her shoulders drooped. "No, because I'm never wearing short-sleeved shirts, again."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "What I'm _actually _asking is do they hurt, anymore?"

"Oh." Chestnut eyes wide, she watched her arms as she stretched them out in front of her. "No, _actually_. They feel great."

"Good," he said, grinning as he faced the road and started the car, at last.

She arched a brow, her gaze glued to his profile. "Good?"

"Yeah."

When he didn't elaborate, Hermione lapsed into observing the buildings zipping past the window. Then he took a turn, and she noticed . . . .

"Malfoy? Campus is in the opposite direction."

"Oh, I know." He glanced at her just long enough to wink, giving her _that_ look. "Calm down, Granger. Got a surprise for you, is all."

She bit her lip, continuing to stare at him as he returned his attention to the road. Whether she should feel nervous, or warm and tingly, at the prospect of whatever surprise he had in store for her—or _both_—she wasn't quite sure.


	33. A Peaceful Moment

**Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story :)**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

A Peaceful Moment

She arched a brow as he took her hand to help her from the car. They stood before a posh residential building.

Narrowing her eyes, she turned to meet Draco's gaze. "What are we doing here?"

He tsked, offering his elbow, but not speaking until she looped her arm through his. "You really don't understand the term _surprise_, do you?"

Hermione fell quiet as he led her through the gilded entryway. She forced a smile as he paused to exchange socially dictated pleasantries with the doorman. She wanted to respond, but that would only lead to another snarky brush-off.

Draco lapsed into silence, as well, as he guided her through a plush-carpeted, vase-lined corridor to a lift. Silent still, his expression unreadable, they stepped out onto a terrifyingly high floor, and walked to a door at the end of a corridor identical to the one on the ground floor.

There was a brief jingling as he dug his keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. Pushing it open, he slipped his arm from hers, nodding for her to step inside.

Biting her lip, Hermione walked in, her gaze wandering over the lavish space. Glass tables with gilt trim, fine leather sofa and arm chairs, high-polished wood furnishings, and hanging lights shaded by beautiful, colored glass filled the room before them.

As she heard the door shut, she turned to face Draco. She watched as he locked the door behind them, meeting his gaze with a lift of her eyebrows.

"Who's flat is this?"

Stepping close, he bit into his lip as he placed his hands on her hips and guided her to walk backward. "Mine," he said, leaning down to nip at her chin as they moved across the dwelling.

"Yours?"

"Well, technically. It's sort of on-hold for me, for when I leave Slytherin Hall."

She smirked, placing her hands over his. "So, _technically_, it's your parents' flat."

"Well . . . ." He puffed out his cheeks. "I suppose, I mean, they paid for it, but it's in _my _name."

Her smirk widened into a wicked grin. "I'm just picking on you. So, this was your surprise?"

"Yes, and no." Draco lifted one hand from beneath hers, tapping a finger against the tip of her nose. "You remember how we were scrambling for time alone? You always worried we'd be caught?"

"Sounds vaguely familiar," she said, aware that he pulled her to stop in a doorway.

"Well, I thought perhaps, now that we're free to sneak off together, whenever we like . . . ." He used his hands on her hips to turn her around, so that she faced into the room. "We might finally try that 'time alone' stuff, and see how it turns out."

Hermione smiled, feeling her cheeks warm. "So the _surprise_ is your bed?"

"It was more the idea that we have a place to sneak off _to_. Besides, we were already in your bed, and that didn't get us very far, did it?"

She turned back to face him, a snarky retort at the ready, but he cut her off, pulling her against him to cover her mouth with his own.

He guided her backward, again, as he thrust his tongue between her lips. Circling her with his arms, he unzipped her dress and tugged it down, off her shoulders.

Sighing, she let her head fall back as his lips left hers to trail down her throat. Hermione moved only enough to help him undress her, stepping out of her shoes and kicking them aside.

He took half a step back, watching her face as slid his hands along her body to cup her breasts. Those wide, chestnut eyes opened to look at him. Holding her gaze for a few heartbeats, he lowered his head, catching her nipple between his teeth and suckling at her.

She shuddered, moaning softly as she pulled at the knot in his tie . . . .

And then she froze.

Feeling her tense against him, he pulled back. "Granger, what is it?"

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she backpedaled to sit on the edge of the bed. She'd not taken her eyes off her bandaged arms.

He knelt down to stare into her face. "Hey, it's okay. If they're bothering you, we _don't_ have to do this now."

She met his gaze, blinking back tears as she shook her head. "No, it's um . . . they don't hurt. I don't know if I can explain. They just . . . . They just _feel_ so ugly!"

"Hey, hey," he said, his voice soft as he cupped her face in his hands. "They're not. They're_ going_ to fade, and until then . . . who cares?"

"I care."

"I don't." He rose up on his knees, so they were eye-level, given her crumpled posture. "They're not ugly, they _can't _be."

She searched his gaze. "Why not?"

"Because they're on _you_, stupid," he said, scowling.

Hermione couldn't help a laugh, sniffling.

"Do you want me to prove to you that I don't think they're ugly?"

Blinking the tears from her eyes, she nodded.

He grinned, biting his lip. Settling back on his heels, he took one of her wrists in his hand, bracing her palm against his shoulder. With delicate movements, he peeled away the tape and removed the gauze pads from her skin, setting them on the bedside table.

Again taking one wrist in hand, he bent his head, tracing the lines of the newly-formed scars with his lips.

She watched, both warmed and mystified by his action. To think only a month and a half ago—granted, perhaps the longest month and a half in recorded history—they'd hated each other. Now, here he was, telling her there was no part of her he'd ever see as ugly.

And she believed him.

As he kissed the last of her scars, he lifted his head to find her gaze already on his. Swallowing hard, he slipped off his tie and then undressed himself, his eyes locked with hers all the while.

Biting her lip, linked her hands behind his neck. She drew him close and kissed him, slow and gentle, before pulling back to stare into his eyes, once more.

He let out a shuddering breath. "Seductive little thing, aren't you?"

She smiled as shifted back to kneel on the bed. "Well, I have my moments."

A half-smile tugging up one corner of his mouth, he climbed up to sit, facing her. Winking, he nodded toward the bedside table.

Arching a brow, she leaned over—ignoring the sight of her bandages—and pulled open the drawer. She nearly laughed at the unopened box of condoms she found there.

Extracting the box, she sat back, looking at him as she opened it. "Should I be worried or flattered that this isn't open?"

"I've never brought a girl here, if that's what you're implying," he said, taking the box from her to remove one of the foil squares. "When I realized there was nothing to stop us, now, I thought, I had a place we could be alone . . . best to be prepared."

He carelessly tossed the box aside, but she snatched the condom from his hand.

Leaning close, she darted her tongue between his lips, caressing and exploring his mouth. As his arms circled her, pulling her to him, she set the little package down beside them. The tips of her fingers trailed down his chest, and along his abdomen.

He groaned when he felt her hands dip lower, grasping his length. Draco held in a chuckle—he was already hard, was she trying to make him burst—and slid a hand up into her hair to tip her head a bit more, deepening the kiss.

When he trembled beneath her delicate touch, she reached for the condom. Hermione unwrapped and withdrew it from the foil, pausing to take one of his hands in hers and leading his fingers between her thighs.

There was a part of him that wanted to throw her back on the bed and bury his face against her at the feel of how warm and wet she already was. They could always circle back to that, he reminded himself, forcing away the impulse.

He somehow felt as though they'd been waiting _forever_ for this.

She let her head fall back as he parted her, rubbing against her in quick, teasing circles. Biting her lip to hold in a moan, she forced her attention back to her chosen task, grasping him and rolling the condom down over his length.

The moment she was finished, he withdrew his hand from her, and grasped her hips, pulling her forward. She helped him, holding him, still, to guide him inside.

Hermione trembled, wrapping her limbs around him as he entered her.

He kept his hands on her hips, moving her over him as he jerked his hips, driving into her hard and deep. The feel of her shivering, and gripping around him was exquisite.

Moving carefully so she didn't disrupt his thrusts, she shifted her legs, pulling them beneath her. Kneeling over him for better leverage, she rocked against his motions.

He slid his hands around to cup her bottom and pulled her harder around his thrusting length, eliciting a stuttering moan from her.

She nudged his head back with hers, bringing her lips to his throat to nip and suckle at soft skin below his ear. Her hands trailed over him, stroking along his sides, his shoulders, the contours of his back as he slid into her and withdrew, over, and over.

He felt her muscles trembling against him, and he held her tighter, thrusting harder as she clenched, warm and quivering, around him.

Hermione threw her head back, crying out as she came, stilling over him; warm, sweet shocks spiraling through her.

Draco ducked his head, catching one of her nipples between his teeth and grazing the sensitive skin so very delicately. He was trying to distract himself, to hold on until her orgasm ended, but her grip on him was _too_ perfect.

As the sweet warmth ebbed, rippling through her in delicious aftershocks, she resumed rocking over him. She gripped his shoulders, working herself around him as his hips jerked, sharp and erratic.

Finally, he stilled beneath her and she slowed, easing to a halt only when he dropped his head down against her shoulder.

Catching his breath, Draco lifted his head to look at her. The way she held his gaze, her cheeks flushed, her breath as heavy as his, and those chestnut eyes wide and hazy, he found himself kissing her, again.

* * *

After their third go, Hermione fell back against the pillows. Her lids drifted closed as she caught her breath. "I swear, are you trying to see how long it'll take us to work through that entire box?"

Draco chuckled, moving to lie on his stomach beside her. He balanced his weight on his elbows, watching her. "We _could _try. I mean, we could stay the night, return to campus tomorrow."

She grinned, heaving a happy sigh. "Mmm. I like the sound of that. I keep forgetting we have that sort of freedom now. Feels . . . nice."

"There you go again, letting me do things that make you feel nice."

"Well, it's not just the freedom of time," she said, imagining she could fall asleep, just like this. "There's a freedom of a different sort in not having anything to fear, anymore."

He remembered a rather unpleasant fact they'd both forgotten. "Well . . . ." He watched her peaceful face. "I wouldn't be too certain on that."

"Hmm? What do you mean?"

"You still have to meet my father," he said, wincing.

Hermione's eyes snapped wide open as she forced a gulp down her throat.

**THE END**

* * *

**As of 06/17/16: This fic now has a sequel, entitled _The Reapers. _One major element of the story changes very early on, so please heed the opening chapter Author's Notes. Hope to see you there :)**


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